


You're Still Worth Lying For (No One Has To Know)

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Arma Angelus - Freeform, Battle of the Bands, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Dating, Fights, Heated makeout sessions, Light Angst, M/M, Non canon though, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patterson - Freeform, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), There's smut, Well - Freeform, band rivalry, but it's off-screen so, i think it’s light, smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-06-30 06:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Battle of the Bands. It's supposed to be fun, simple, meaningless rivalry and nothing more. No one ever told Patrick he'd end up in a Romeo and Juliet situation.And no one ever told him he'd start out hating Romeo<><><>AU where Romeo and Juliet are only dating to keep their bands from killing each other





	1. Taken as Offensive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Snitches!!!!!
> 
> You are a blessing to bandom in every way and I truly hope you have the most fantastic celebrations for your birthday. Your fics are absolute magic and I feel so lucky to have ever had the chance to befriend you :) I truly hope you enjoy this gift
> 
> <><><>
> 
> Unbeta'd, though I did read it to my sister a thousand times and she gave it the okay so... blame her.
> 
> I don't know as much about pre-FOB bands so, please, show mercy. I may pretend to know what I'm talking about but I don't. I really don't.
> 
> So much more to come in the future!

According to the entire universe— or, at least the bits of universe Patrick’s had the fun luck of stumbling into— Pete Wentz is a massive dick and is not to be considered as anything other than a nuisance and an asshole.

Also according to the universe— and directly related to the first observation— Patrick is not allowed to discover this for himself. Rather, as the universe thus far has dictated, he is to nod along with Joe’s rants and assume the worst when he’s told there’s a chance he may meet this horrific disaster of a person sometime in his near future.

The universe hasn’t really asked about Patrick’s feelings on the matter but, as a kid fresh out of high school and fresh out of other options, he’s decided it’s best to go along with it. 

This doesn’t mean, however, that he isn’t curious. When Joe begrudgingly warns him of a chance encounter with Pete, Patrick does his best to act disappointed.

Patrick’s not one to try to read people but Joe’s narrowed eyes speak of a suspicion Patrick finds entirely unfounded.

“Maybe I should just leave you at home,” Joe suggests, the last one to leave after an unproductive band practice in Patrick’s basement. “We don’t really need all the band members to be present at the registration, I don’t think.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and considers himself merciful for not going with the obvious comment on Joe’s choices in describing his thinking patterns. Instead, he does the far more mature thing and threatens Joe with one of his drumsticks.

“Are you forgetting the part where you’re not my mom? And, like, younger than me?” Patrick asks, brandishing the wooden stick like a sword raised up in battle. “It’s my first battle of the bands, dude, and your stupid rivalry with Wentz isn’t going to fuck it up.”

“It’s not just  _ my  _ rivalry,” Joe says. “It’s  _ everyone’s  _ rivalry. There isn’t one person I know that Pete hasn’t pissed off and, like, I just know he’s gonna pick a fight tomorrow. He always does and it always sucks because his stupid band always goes along with the antics and I think they all hate us just because Pete told them to.” He pauses, eyes focused warily on Patrick’s drumstick before beginning again. “And I told your mom I wouldn’t let you get into any stupid band shit.”

“She was talking about drugs and drinking, you dipshit. And that has nothing to do with the band and everything to do with the people in it,” he says, finally lowering the drumstick. “Look, either Wentz is an asshole and we crush his band in the battle, or you’re wrong about everything and no one fights. It’s a win-win situation no matter what.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest, huffing as he does so. “I resent that you think I’d be wrong.”

Patrick grins, cruel and sharp-edged— teenage mischief coating each corner. “Then let me meet Pete and find out if you’re right.”

Joe’s silent— an angry kind of silent, tinged with frustration and resignation. Finally, a mere second later, he sighs and drops his head back onto Patrick’s couch.

“Fine,” he groans. “But when he, like, threatens to do your mom in front of you I’m not saving you from the mental image.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose— the stories he’s heard of Pete have all painted him as some troll freed from whatever fairy tale he’d been plaguing and the mental image is already all kinds of Not Good— but he taps out a victorious beat on his drum set anyway.

“Whatever, man,” he says. “He better be as diabolical as you say or I’m going to be disappointed.”

“Why you want to see that idiot is way beyond me,” Joe sighs, running his fingers through the short curls making their way into existence. “But he’s absolutely as diabolical as I say. Or, you know, actually, he’s worse. He’s so much worse. He’s… He’s  _ infamous _ . He’s the infamous Pete Wentz and don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”

Patrick can’t pinpoint why he wants to meet Pete, either, but it’s a dilemma he shoves to the side, resting the question with other useless worries like how he’s going to tell his mom he doesn’t want to go to college or if his dad will notice his guitar’s gone missing. 

All perfectly useless concerns.

Still, a rush of excitement does charter a path through Patrick’s veins, warm and vicious, as he imagines finally meeting the man he’s heard so much about. 

Pete Wentz— the pain in Joe’s ass for as long as he’s been in the scene and the biggest threat to them in the upcoming battle of the bands. 

Pete Wentz— vocalist for Arma Angelus, a band Patrick’s only ever heard extreme opinions about. Love them or hate them— the same thing he’s heard about Pete.

His drumming picks up, louder and harsher than before. Joe whines about practice being over and complains about headaches but Patrick doesn’t care.

Tomorrow, when his band goes to register for the upcoming battle, he’ll be able to meet Pete Wentz.

And he absolutely cannot fucking wait. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s excitement lasts only until he finds himself standing in line outside a dingy club, waiting to register for a competition he can barely find the emotion to care about.

In his defense, his band could have absolutely waited until the afternoon to do this; instead, though, they dragged him out of his bed— traitorously, with the permission of his mother— and out onto the streets at the ungodly hour of nine a.m..

To say he’s cranky would be an understatement— and a perfect excuse for him to punch someone in the mouth. Waking up early is bad enough, he figures; putting up with the rambling voices of his own impossibly cheery band is nearly impossible.

Right now, it’s Joe rambling on as their fellow bandmates— Wyatt and Terry, vocals and bass respectively— watch on with the expected excitement typical of anyone willing to put up with Joe Trohman’s early morning schemes.

Patrick, on the other hand, joined the band just a month ago and isn’t expected to be anything other than exasperated as he’s tugged from sucky gig to sucky gig, his drum set the only defense against college kids hating on another crappy high school band. 

“Anyway, I was thinking that Patterson—” Joe goes on, and,  _ god _ , Patrick hates that band name with the fury of every goddamn sun in the universe, “—should put off all small shows until the battle’s over. We’ve just got a little over a month until then so we should really get started on some heavy practices. Oh, and you know what? Maybe the battle will give us enough publicity to make up for the missed gigs!”

Joe’s bouncing on his toes like a girl asking her dad for a pony and Patrick can’t help but scoff.

“Gigs?” He asks. “Dude, it’s only a gig if you’re paid for it and, last I checked, your mom handing out gas money before we leave the driveway doesn’t count.”

Joe stops bouncing, eyes narrowing as if Patrick cares enough to feel any guilt.

“Okay, asshole, as the newest member you so don’t have a right to—”

Patrick never does find out what his rights do and do not include as, to his entire band’s frustration, a loud laugh fills the air.

“Oh, god, these guys again? Did they get lost on the way to the middle school talent show or do they really think they stand a chance?”

Patrick’s head snaps up. He doesn’t know that voice, doesn’t recognize it at all, but he’s heard enough stories to wager a guess.

Wyatt— a tall blond kid with acne decorating his chin and cheeks— rolls his eyes and folds his arms. Terry and Joe do the same, their tense expressions more than enough of an answer.

“And here I was thinking we’d get lucky,” Terry says in his whiny tone, reaching to push dark curls away from his face. “But, of course, this idiot has to make an appearance.”

“He always does,” Wyatt sighs, though his jaw’s tight. “You think he’d ever pass up a chance in the spotlight? You know he thrives off attention.”

Joe nods, eyes on something over Patrick’s shoulder.

“Fucking dick,” he adds intelligently to the conversation.

“Who?” Patrick asks, stomach bursting with anticipation. Look, he’s been pissed since he woke up and he’d like nothing more than to toss his fist into someone’s face— it usually doesn’t matter who but if this guy’s as bad as they say…

“Oh, I think you know who,” Joe says, jerking his chin in a sign for Patrick to look. “Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the  _ devil _ .”

That’s all Patrick needs to hear before he’s turning around and searching for Satan himself. 

It takes only a second— Joe describing him as “the dick with the horse teeth”, Terry chiming in about girl jeans and tight shirts— and Patrick scowls just as deeply as the rest of his band.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders why no one warned him the devil would be so handsome.

Not in a conventional way— no, that would be too easy— but in the way that has Patrick hating himself and wondering why he didn’t know he was into  _ that _ . Dark hair— darker than it has any right to be, a black hole with a gravity focused only on Patrick— rests atop summer tan skin, almost bangs but not quite as the tips barely dip into his eyes, the color of whiskey and mischief. Patrick tries not to raise an eyebrow or smirk back as that gaze lands on his own, the devil’s lips shaped into a pretty, lopsided grin. 

Somewhere between his frustration and attraction, Patrick notes that Joe was right about the teeth. 

“Behold, the face of god’s most irritating creation,” Joe mutters, his ire apparent.

Patrick nods weakly, too caught up on the tattoos— and,  _ oh god _ , since when was he into tattoos?— to really respond. 

“Is he coming over here?” Someone asks, probably Terry.

“He better not be.” That one’s Joe, threats in each word.

The last one is most definitely Wyatt, the rasp in his voice unmistakable and, Patrick’s told, the reason he was made their singer. “Fuck, he’s coming over here.”

“He’s—” Patrick blinks and, oh, that is Pete walking closer and, hey, he’s looking at Patrick and Joe’s pulling him back and—

“You got fresh meat,” Pete says, arms crossed and hip cocked to the side because  _ of fucking course _ he would stand with his hip cocked out to the side. He grins, all razor-edge and malice, and directs his gaze at Patrick. He’s not much taller than him but something about his smile has Patrick feeling smaller than usual. “So who’s dick did you suck to get in?”

And, just like that, Patrick remembers that— yeah— Pete’s an asshole.

“Excuse me?” Insult helps him feel bigger than he had a few moments ago, straightening his spine and stepping into Pete’s space.

He’s most definitely not trying to look any older. Or impressive. 

Pete only pokes at his chest, smiling like Patrick’s being endearing. 

“You could have tried Arma first, you know,” he continues as if Patrick hadn’t heard. “We don’t typically let groupies into the band but we could have definitely made an exception for you.”

Patrick’s not quite sure if he’s supposed to feel offended; it’s the not-crankiness and reminder of band loyalty that has him deciding on yes.

“I’m guessing you know from experience,” Patrick snaps, smacking Pete’s hand away. “Or do you really wake up each morning and decide the hooker look is a good one?”

“Oh, he’s got fire!” Pete exclaims though he shakes his hand a bit as he pulls it back. His grin sharpens and his eyes blaze with the same sense of challenge that Patrick feels burning in his blood. “So do you actually have a purpose in this band or do they pay you to stand around and shout mean things?”

Patrick just barely stops himself from claiming that Pete started it and stalls with another scoff, harsher than the one he saves for his bandmates.

“I play in the band, asshole. Which is more than you do in yours if I’ve heard correctly.” 

Pete raises an eyebrow, glancing back at the three other boys shoving at Patrick’s shoulder and cheering him on with little ooh-ahh sounds. 

“Oh, so someone’s been spreading rumors?” Pete asks, stepping closer to Patrick. Patrick recoils, nose scrunched up. He can practically feel the idiocy rolling off of him in waves. “Who’s been telling stories this time?”

“I think you misunderstand,” Patrick insists. “I’ve listened to your music and,  _ if I heard correctly _ , you’re not doing a damn thing to help your sound.” He pauses for effect, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Unless it’s supposed to sound like that?”

“Like what?” Pete knows, he has to know what Patrick’s going to say. It’s more of a chance for Patrick to back out of his set-up, to save his skin and get on with the day before someone decides he’d look prettier with a few bruises on his face.

Still, Patrick’s never been one to ignore his impulses, especially when he knows the reaction will be a good one.

“Like it sucks.” 

It’s not the most clever of insults but Patrick knows best that fights are all about timing.

So, of course, Patrick says this just as the rest of Pete’s band comes to join them.

“Yo, Wentz, we gonna get in line?” Another short guy with dark skin and dark hair comes up by Pete, tossing an arm over his shoulder. It’s almost protective and Patrick narrows his eyes at the sight.

“Yeah, hold up, Chris. I was just listening to the new guy explain why Arma sucks.” 

Patrick doesn’t know the rules of band fights but he’s pretty sure this part isn’t fair.

Chris looks right at Patrick and Patrick can’t help but wonder why Pete was the only one he was ever warned about. The rest of Arma Angelus lines up around them, taller guys with big muscles and hateful eyes.

“Oh, so Patterson’s baby is gonna talk shit to us,” Chris says and  _ why the fuck does everyone think Patrick is the young one?  _ “That’s cute.”

He reaches across and shoves at Patrick’s chest, harder than Pete had and with an open palm. Patrick hates how he stumbles back, caught by Wyatt, but Joe jumps to his defense before Patrick has to.

“Don’t touch him, dickface,” he says, shoving Chris right back. It doesn’t help the whole “baby” situation but Patrick does appreciate it.

Right up until the part where Chris grabs Joe’s shirt and leans towards him with a sneer. “You so sure you wanna try that?”

Patrick hasn’t known Joe long but he’s known him long enough to consider him a friend. Besides, Joe just shoved an older guy for him— it’d be wrong for Patrick  _ not  _ to punch Chris in the face.

Naturally, he hits him in the mouth without holding anything back. 

Chris stumbles away, holding his busted lip with a cry as Patrick shakes out his hand, trying not to gag at the feeling of saliva and blood on his knuckles. The sight of Chris’ pained expression and his string of curses are more than satisfying and Patrick’s ready to turn around and revel in his victory.

Really, he should have known better than to expect things to be that easy.

He doesn’t know who screams “Fight!” or “You fucking little shit” but, soon enough, Patterson and Arma Angelus collide, fists and knees aimed for delicate places as the two bands scream obscene things at each other. Patrick ducks away from each hit coming his way, his hands stinging from the punch he’d thrown at Chris. Some blows land on his shoulders and cheek and each one only fuels his desire to murder someone.

When he catches Pete in the midst of it, laughing and smiling like it’s all good fun, he’s pretty sure he knows exactly who he wants to murder.

He did start it, after all.

Patrick moves towards him, not certain what he’s planning to do, when the rest of the crowd joins in, pushing and shoving with the intent of getting in on something they don’t understand. People shout at each other, releasing pent-up frustration from standing around all morning. It’s a mess of bands and poor fools who were dragged along, everybody screaming as they hit and kick and bite. Honestly, Patrick’s certain it’s the perfect place to get away with homicide.

All perfection, though, drops away when he trips over someone’s attempt at a roundhouse kick. His chin slams against the ground hard enough for his tongue to burst between his teeth and pained tears spring to his eyes— though, if anyone asks, that last bit never happened.

He shoves up to his knees, spitting out blood collecting in his mouth and rubbing at his chin with a frown. The people around him don’t seem to notice he’s fallen, moving like a riot against one another. They tower above him now and there’s no use trying to get anyone’s attention, something he learns from one too many assholes batting him away.  He’s one of the reasons this entire thing is going on— it’s not fair that he has to spend most of it on the ground.

Joe passes by, a mess of curls and angry fists, and Patrick reaches out for him, hoping to be helped up. Joe, though, is too focused on jumping onto the back of a stranger neither in Patterson or Arma Angelus— and someone else grabs Patrick’s hand.

Someone. 

Pete Wentz. 

Patrick doesn’t know what Pete’s playing at as he tugs on Patrick’s hand, his grip tight and warm and a little sweaty. There’s a cut on the edge of his right eyebrow, a steady stream of blood dripping down his cheek in an arc, but he barely seems to notice as he smiles down at Patrick.

Patrick’s supposed to punch him in the face, too, right?

He’s not sure but it feels right as he tugs Pete down and prepares another tight fist. Pete seems unaware of the danger he’s in— or maybe he just doesn’t care— and Patrick puts on his meanest grin. 

“Break it up! Break it up!”

His smile falls as quickly as he had, an authoritative voice making its way through the crowd with irritation and exasperation. The fight begins to still as event workers tear people away from each other, threatening to disqualify bands from the battle. 

“Everyone back to their own bands! Now!” That’s Andy Hurley’s frustrated voice, the famed drummer pulling Patrick up and shoving Pete away. He moves to continue before his eyes land on Pete and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god, Pete, you know better. You know better!”

Pete only smiles and shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

Andy glares but it’s familiar and Patrick’s entirely ready for his band to be dropped because, apparently, Pete Wentz is friends with one of the organizers.

Instead, blessing that he is, Andy merely shakes his head. “Back to your bands. Both of you.”

Pete’s conduct as he leaves— carefree and reckless, shooting finger-guns at Patrick and howling with laughter— seems entirely unconscionable but Patrick doesn’t have the chance to chase him down before Wyatt finds him, leading him to a different line.

“Told you he’s an asshole,” Joe says, rubbing at bruised knuckles when Patrick arrives back with the rest of his band.

Patrick looks down at his own cut-up knuckles— bleeding from Chris’ teeth because he always gets the grossest deals— and then finds Pete across the room.

Laughing. Smiling. Poking at a scratch on his stomach and showing off another tattoo in the process— one obscenely beneath his navel.

Oh, Pete Wentz is more than an asshole, he decides.

He’s absolutely impossible.

  
  



	2. Like An Old Friend I've Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is 99.9% assholes
> 
> (the .1 percent is Patrick's mom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I was going to post this on Monday so it could be a weekly thing but, I mean, am I someone who can do regular updates? Also, a more reasonable excuse, I am very busy on Mondays. Classes and news meetings and other things you don't care to hear about, haha.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for the loving response to the first chapter! Please enjoy this one (and the rest) as well!

Convincing Patrick to pull middle school tier pranks on Pete’s band takes less effort than anyone— Patrick included— could have expected. Sure, he wastes time pretending to waffle over the morals and ethics of playing ding-dong-ditch all throughout Arma Angelus’ practice but, in the end, Patrick goes for it with just as much vigor as the guys coming up with the plans.

His only problem, really, is that they are all terribly stupid plans.

The two bands go back and forth with their idiocy and Patrick can feel himself losing brain cells each time he lives through a prank— no matter who’s behind it. It started out as fun and games when it was as simple as Patterson prank-calling Pete’s mom to warn her about her son being the antichrist— a call she took with as much grace as a tired mother possibly could. After a few weeks, though, things were just shaping up to be ridiculous.

And, yes, Patrick is thinking about the pizza someone had sent to his house at two in the morning— the delivery boy hadn’t given up the name of whoever had ordered it but the pizza itself, decorated with olives in the shape of a cock, was clear enough. 

It was good pizza, though, and it even helped Patrick to get over the fear of knowing that Pete and his stupid friends know where he lives--  a fact that he was sure to tell his mom about; he feels better knowing she’ll know who to call the cops on if he ever goes missing in the middle of the night.

Someone smart would call off the prank war before anyone actually gets hurt; alas, no one in any band is ever really smart and Joe shows up to practice with the worst idea possible.

“Okay, so I found some leftover Fourth of July shit in my garage—” There is no possible way that sentence is going to end well, “—and I’m thinking we light a smoke bomb inside Pete’s house.”

“Dude, what the fuck? No,” Patrick says, the rejection prepared from the second he saw Joe’s bag of unused fireworks. Joe frowns and Patrick glares at the bag even harder. “I said no.”

Joe’s frown deepens. “But I thought you hated them.”

“Of course I hate them.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “But, like, knowing you, your plan is to send me in there or have me distract them or something else that will get me beat up and my mom was already pissed enough about the last fight.”

“Okay, but—” Joe cuts off and Patrick raises an eyebrow, daring him to disagree with anything he’d said. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns uselessly to Wyatt and Terry as if hoping for some backup.

Of course, it’s Terry’s stupid whiny voice that chimes in. “It would be really funny.”

Yes, because humor is all that matters. Patrick quietly considers entering the show as a one-man-band.

“Why can’t you guys do it, then? I’ll stand in the distance with a camera,” he offers, taking his place behind the drum set. He supposes he could point out that practicing their set would be better than talking about Pete but that would take logic and patience— things he’s okay with admitting he lacks.

“But you’re the smallest,” Wyatt points out as if there’s no harm in talking about Patrick’s less than desirable height. “You could get in and out so quickly.”

At this point, Patrick’s sure his face is going to get stuck as a glare forever. Which will be fine, considering the people he always gets stuck around.

“So you are planning on sending me in,” he says, pointing accusingly at Joe. Joe shrugs, the bag rustling guiltily in his hand.

“I was planning on sending a pizza to their house— you know, like the one you got but with, like, pineapples so it’s really fucking wrong— and then someone, um, small and unassuming could go through the back and hide out in a closet or something and then… Okay, yeah, I was planning on sending you in, sue me.” He drops the bag just to put his hands on his hips. “But Wyatt's totally right. You’re quick and, yeah, you’re small. So you can probably outrun the bastards and hide in whatever nook and cranny Pete has in his house.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “I really don’t want to think about nooks and crannies and Pete in the same sentence.” He’s not really surprised when Terry tosses an empty water bottle at his head for that remark— he’s always been a bit squeamish about innuendos and shit— but it does hurt his feelings a little. He readjusts his beanie with a sigh. “Besides, didn’t you say Wentz was going to college on a soccer scholarship? Dude, I almost failed P.E., there’s no chance I’m out running a soccer star.”

“Okay, but consider this.” Joe pauses for dramatic effect, rustling around in the bag on the floor before holding up a purple smoke bomb. “He can’t chase you if he can’t see you.”

Patrick’s tone is as dead as he feels inside. “Magical.”

“Look,” Joe says, falling down onto the couch with a heavy sigh. “It’s perfectly safe, okay? For everyone. Worst case scenario, smoke alarm goes off and the neighborhood panics but there’s no way they’ll be able to trace it back to you, right? If anything, they’ll probably think it’s more shitty antics from Arma— they used to stand around in parking lots and tase each other, okay? It won’t be so hard for people to think they lit a smoke bomb thinking it’d be cool. Plus, you can totally escape in that chaos.” He leans back, proud of his words as everyone but Patrick nods.

The moment stretches as Patrick considers— really considers— Joe’s idea. He’s probably wrong about no one tracing it back to him— ever since that day at registration, Pete’s had all his pranks directed solely at Patrick— and waltzing into his house is practically an invitation to get punched in the face. As much as he may like a good fight, Patrick never actually enjoys getting punched in the face.

Still. 

Pete is a massive asshole and all of his friends are just as bad. Plus, he never did get to get him back for that stupid 2 a.m. pizza. He imagines the chaos that would erupt the second smoke starts filling Arma’s practice space— Pete’s garage because that’s not a cliche at all— and can’t help but grin at the satisfaction of knowing he’d be the one behind it.

He hates giving in but Joe’s right— Pete and his goons absolutely deserve this.

“Fine,” he says. “But only because I hate Wentz.”

Joe smiles. “I knew you would.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ Sending me into the house alone wasn’t enough. No, those idiots had to treat the whole thing like a stupid spy film mission. _

Patrick is, of course, referring to the walkie-talkie strapped to his hip and the knowledge that, while he waits anxiously in Pete's backyard, the rest of his band is safely tucked away in his mom’s basement.

She’s probably making them snacks, too.

The walkie-talkie crackles to life, yanking Patrick from the upsetting mental image of his band feasting on pumpkin squares and brownies. He blinks a handful of times, scrambling to unhook the damn thing without drawing attention to the tree he’s currently hiding behind.

“Trohman to Stump, come in Stump,” Joe says, voice staticky on the other side. He sounds like a ten-year-old playing make-believe with his friends and Patrick tries his best not to toss the walkie-talkie to the ground.

“I told you not to call me that, asshole,” Patrick hisses, glancing around the side of the tree and in through one of the windows. The band is— despite Joe’s reassurances— not practicing in the garage today. Instead, they’ve all been gathered on the couch for the past fifteen minutes, shoving at each other and joking around. Pete, the ringleader for everything, is sprawled across everyone’s laps, the couch too small to fit him alongside them. He seems comfortable in the position, his shirt raking up as he drags his fingers back and forth across the thin strip of skin exposed there.

Patrick has no logical explanation for why none of his friends have shoved him to the ground yet and all of the illogical responses end in a giant band orgy. 

And if Patrick ends up witnessing an Arma Angelus orgy, he’s killing Joe.

“You probably shouldn’t talk. It could blow your cover and we, uh, we’re not close enough to come save you if the Arma guys decide to…” Joe trails off, reminding Patrick that there are a dozen other reasons to kill him outside of hypothetical sex scenes. “Anyway. Wyatt said the pizza should be there soon so, like, wait for all of them to crowd around the door and sneak in.”

“Right,” Patrick says, ignoring Joe’s insistent reminders not to make any noise. “And where, exactly, do you suggest I hide?”

“Dude, do I seem like someone familiar with Wentz’s home?” Joe asks. Patrick can’t quite remember if joining a band is worth this level of frustration. “Look, I’m sure they have a closet or hallway for you to hide in, okay? And, besides, you’re pretty small, I’m sure you can work something out.”

“Hey!”

“Shut up!” Joe huffs and Patrick cringes from the high-pitched static it results in. “They’ll have to go practice sooner or later so just wait for them to go to the garage, light the bomb, throw it and run. Simple.”

“Says the guy on the other side of the neighborhood,” Patrick snaps. “If I get caught, this smoke bomb’s going right up your— Oh, shit, I think the pizza’s here.” Sure enough, all members inside the house stand and rush for the door, shoving and laughing at each other as they go. It only takes a handful of seconds before they’ve all disappeared from sight.

Joe acks— an actual, disgusting  _ ack _ ing sound— and the walkie-talkie’s suddenly overcome with the obvious breathing of three boys leaning over it in anticipation. 

“Are you going in?” Joe asks.

For the first time since agreeing to this, Patrick’s stomach turns. “Do you really think I should—”

“Go in!” That’s all three of them screaming like it’s anything easy to do. 

Patrick takes a deep breath, regrets not writing a will, and then rushes for the backdoor. It slides open easily, silently, and Patrick sends out a quick prayer of gratitude that it wasn’t locked.

Or, maybe he should be hoping it was locked. He doesn’t know how he feels about this anymore.

He steps inside and shuts the door, the walkie-talkie blessedly silent as he tries to search for somewhere to hide. He knows the basic layout of Pete’s house— all houses in this neighborhood are designed basically the same— so he can hazard a guess for where the garage is. The problem is that he can hear the other band talking in the front lounge, growing closer with each passing second. He doesn’t have time to strategize— and it’s not like he’s good at doing so anyway— so he does the next best thing.

He runs down the opposite hallway, opens the first door he finds and throws himself inside. He bites on his tongue to keep from breathing too heavily and bats coats— yes, coats— away from his face.

A coat closet. Joe will be absolutely delighted.

He just needs to wait for the band to go to the garage— if the pizza doesn’t send them on their way to Patrick’s place first. As he listens to the band filing back into the living room, on the other side of the closet wall, he wonders if it would be such a bad thing if they decided to attack the three boys currently lounging about in Patrick’s basement.

Pete’s voice— as irritating as the first time Patrick heard it— cuts these wonderings off.

“So, Hurley, my man! What brings you by?” 

_ Hurley? So it wasn’t the pizza guy? _

Patrick’s stomach does another flip.

“You know what brings me here, Pete,” Andy says in the exact exasperated tone Pete deserves. “That fight at registration? The pranks? Your unbelievable rivalry with a group of high schoolers? Any of this ring a bell?”

There’s a pause and then Pete's laugh. It’s nervous but it’s a laugh.

“I actually think they all graduated so it’s not that big of a—”

“Oh, don’t even try to explain it. I don't care,” Andy says. A thump on the wall follows his words— probably from him or another person leaning against it— and Patrick covers his mouth to keep from squealing at the sound.

Not that he ever squeals.

“You know one of the coordinators of the battle works at Pizza Hut, right? So he knows you’ve been sending shit at midnight to those kids,” Andy says. “And I know  _ you  _ so I know it’s not the only thing you’ve been doing.”

“Aw, c’mon,” someone interrupts— maybe Chris, maybe someone else. “It’s just a bit of band rivalry. We do this every year.”

“Yes, well—” Andy’s voice is harder, leaving no room for excuses or jokes “ —not every year begins with a fist fight, does it?”

Cold silence follows his words and, had he the room or clean conscience, Patrick would fist-pump at the fact that anyone could get Pete and his crew to shut up.

Of course, this only lasts a matter of seconds before Pete’s voice— annoying, really, so annoying— cuts in. “Okay, you’re a pacifist, we all know that. But why come here to chew us out?”

There’s another silence, shorter this time, and Patrick imagines Andy sighing. 

“I  _ shouldn’t  _ be here but, as much as I may pretend to hate it, you're my friend and the last thing I want is for anyone’s stupidity to mess this band up,” he says. Patrick’s blood boils— just a little— at the thought of any sort of special treatment and he pats his pocket, just to be sure the smoke bomb and lighter are safe inside. “I’m here to warn you about the new policy the other organizers— and the judges— want to implement. Basically, it’s going to say that anyone caught tampering with another band— be it foul play or fights or pranks— can and will be disqualified. I don’t know if they’ll count past actions but I  just think you should all be aware of it.”

Someone says something— something whiny and pathetic— but Patrick doesn’t hear it, blood suddenly rushing through his ears. The smoke bomb feels a lot more incriminating against his palm, burning like it’s been lit.

This… This isn’t tampering, right?

“That’s such bullshit!” Chris, definitely Chris, yells. “I can name at least five other bands that do the exact same shit as us. What about Patterson, huh? That punk of theirs started the fight, after all. Why aren’t they getting warnings?”

The heat in Patrick’s body spreads up to his cheeks, a bloom of guilt and pride as the rest of Arma Angelus shout out details of the fight. He’s not too happy about being dragged into this but, as they all complain about the one punch he threw, Patrick decides he’ll gladly take the reputation. Better than being the baby, after all.

Still, Patrick notices one voice has been suspiciously silent, remarkably unheard.

Pete hasn’t said anything.

“Oh, will you all calm down?” Andy asks before Patrick can ponder it any longer. “Everyone’s going to get the warning, okay? I just came here because, like I said, Pete’s my friend. As for the fight… Well, I’m sure, if it’s true, Patterson already has that mark against them. We’re not tolerating any crap this year. You got all that, yeah?”

Yeah, Patrick thinks, swallowing nervously. He’s screwed.

“How many warnings do we get?” Pete asks, sounding softer than usual. 

Which, of course, must just be the wall muffling the rest of his bothersome voice.

“This is it,” Andy says. “They’re going to make it official battle rules in a few days and it’s a no tolerance kinda thing. So, basically, if you fuck up once, you’re out.”

Though Patrick’s not in the room— though he’s not in the band and he barely knows these guys— he can feel the tension and frustrations rise, seeping through the air thick enough he takes a step back. His own irritations fade into fears, guilt and panic twisting across his skin like leeches as they suck out every ounce of conviction he’d had coming in here.

If he gets caught, his band could be discarded.

If he gets caught, the one thing he cares for in this world— no matter how he pretends to hate it and Joe and everyone else involved— will be ruined.

Patrick’s not sure of many things; he doesn’t know if college is right for him, doesn’t know if there’s any reasonable job created to suit him. He panics at the thought of sitting behind a desk forever and he dreams of stages and people singing along to melodies he’s written. He’s sure of what he wants— he just doesn’t know if there’s any right way to get there.

And if there isn’t— as his mom is fond of telling him— then this band is his one chance at it. A summer fling with his dream profession, all over because of a stupid firework.

He needs to leave.

Patrick presses back against the closet wall, listening as the band ushers Andy back outside with no small amount of grumbling or cursing. Patrick would almost feel bad for Andy taking on the messenger role if he wasn’t too preoccupied with getting out.

Slowly, Patrick creeps towards the front of the closet. He pulls the door open--

\--and the walkie-talkie screeches back to life.

“So did you do it?”

Patrick’s gonna murder Joe. He’s actually and officially going to kill him in every way possible and bring him back just to do it all over again. In the time it takes for his panic to swap places with anger, he thinks of twelve different places he can hide the body and fifteen convincing alibis.

It’s a quick millisecond, though, because panic comes right back in when he hears someone shout, “Who’s in here?”

It’s not the smartest action but Patrick throws himself back into the closet, slamming the door shut with his heart in his throat. He fumbles with the walkie-talkie, shutting it off with stumbling fingers and sending Joe’s voice away with it.

Okay, he might not kill Joe.

And that’s only because he’ll be too dead to even try.

Footsteps storm the house, the sound of angered band members rushing to take their frustration out on anyone or anything. Patrick got lucky in that first fight when he had no consequences to face other than broken bones and busted knuckles. Now, though, it’s his band— his music and his dream— on the line and he can’t risk that.

He can’t ever risk that.

Back against the wall, Patrick hides behind layers of jackets and winter coats and listens to Pete directing others into various places— a military set-up meant to guard all exits. Pete’s voice disappears, all sound disappears, and Patrick tries very hard not to bite through his bottom lip. 

A door on the other side of the house opens and shuts, Patrick’s heart pounding as harshly as the slamming sound. Another door opens and it’s closer this time, the seeker methodically making his way towards Patrick. 

Obviously, there’s only one thing to do: fight him off.

With a smoke bomb and lighter.

Look, it’s not logical and it’s not smart but Patrick never claimed to be any of these things. He’s merely a kid with good survival instincts— hey, he’s survived this far, hasn’t he?—  and an even better right hook. He figures he can light the bomb, cause some distraction, and escape before anyone knows it’s him.

And if he takes out some Arma Assholes on his way to the door? Well, it was probably meant to be, anyway. 

He fumbles in his pocket for the supplies, dropping the walkie-talkie and not caring for the noise it makes. He’s only lit a firework a few times— a bad experience involving a misfiring roman candle and a near hit at his brother’s face turned him away from most Fourth of July activities— but he knows the general idea. Light the ropey part and toss it. 

Simple— if only the lighter would actually light. Patrick swears under his breath, sweaty palms and fingers making the action near impossible. 

And it shouldn’t be impossible. Light the fucking ropey part and toss it. 

Light the ropey part and—

“Hey!” 

Yeah, okay, fuck the fire— Patrick tosses it. 

A little round ball of what Patrick assumes to be non-toxic— or maybe it’s toxic, he doesn’t fucking know— chemicals and other sciency shit bounce off Pete Wentz’s enormous forehead. There’s a satisfying  _ thwunk  _ and then Patrick’s rushing forward. 

Only to get pushed right back into the closet with Pete shutting the door behind them.

There’s some sort of fucked up metaphor there but Patrick really doesn’t want to think about it.

“What the hell? You can’t just keep me in here, asshole,” Patrick says, shoving at Pete’s chest to no avail. Pete rubs at his forehead, eyes shut, and Patrick refuses to feel bad about it. “I fucked up your friend’s mouth and I’ll do yours next, I swear!”

“God, I wish someone would fuck your mouth. Up. Fuck up your mouth or…” Pete pauses, opening his eyes with a groan. “Shit, kid, what the hell did you throw at me?”

“None of your business,” Patrick snaps back, though his cheeks burn a little. Truly, he didn’t mean to throw it quite so hard and, hey, if he did, it’s not like he was planning on sticking around to deal with the aftermath. “Now, are you going to let me go or do I have to throw something else?” 

Pete drops his hand from his forehead, staring at Patrick with enough incredulity to have Patrick reconsidering his options.

“Okay, I know you’re not stupid enough to want to try to take on the rest of the band by yourself. You got shoved to the ground in that last fight and, this time, you’re alone. You really think they’ll go easy just because you’re small?” Pete asks, stepping closer into Patrick’s space. Back already pressed firmly against the wall, Patrick has nowhere else to go. “I’m doing you a fucking favor by keeping you in here. Sooner or later, they’ll go check outside and I'll sneak you out so you can go home without a body bag.  _ You’re welcome _ .”

It makes sense. Or, well, it  _ would  _ make sense if it was coming from literally anyone else.

“Yeah, and I’m also not stupid enough to stand here and pretend you’re not, like, holding me hostage or something,” Patrick says, crossing his arms stubbornly. In hindsight, he probably just looks petulant but his arms are already crossed and there’s really no going back.

Pete blinks twice. 

“What the fuck would I get from holding you hostage?” He asks slowly with a strong emphasis on  _ you _ .

It’s an insult, Patrick’s sure it is.

“Fuck off!” Patrick shrieks, kicking Pete’s shin. Impulses. “I’m worth, like, a ton, okay? My mom would pay so much to have me back and you have no idea how much my band needs me… Have you heard the songs they were writing before I joined?” He kicks Pete’s shin again for good measure. “Asshole.”

“Fuck, fuck, stop!” Pete hops around, an overdramatic reaction if Patrick’s ever seen one. He wasn’t even kicking that hard. “Do you ever… Dude, just…  _ Ow _ .”

“Ow is the point,” Patrick says. He refuses to admit-- outwardly or otherwise-- how absolutely childish it sounds.

“Yeah, okay, sure, whatever,” Pete says, crossing his own arms now. It’s really not fair that he has these tattoos that roll with each movement of his arms and those hints muscles beneath tan skin and— “Did you hear what Andy was saying?”

Patrick narrows his eyes. “Dude, if you’re going to hit me for eavesdropping, I’ll have you know that—”

“Oh my god, just answer the question,” Pete says. Patrick’s fairly certain he can see a vein throbbing on his temple. He’s probably been mean enough for today.

“Okay, yeah,” Patrick says, tossing his arms down. “I heard what he said.”

“Good.” Pete barely takes a breath before spouting out his next sentence. “So we can agree you need to be my boyfriend.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Patrick has no idea where to start.

“What the fuck?” Seems like a pretty good place to begin and he says it with as much repulsion as he can muster— so much, in fact, that he bangs his head against the wall from physically recoiling. “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Not yet, no. But you obviously know that I’m right,” Pete says. He’s way too calm for someone throwing the words ‘be my boyfriend’ around.

“What on earth makes you think that?” Patrick asks, appalled. 

Appalled. Pete has him thinking in SAT vocab words, now. If that's not a sign that he's horrible then Patrick doesn't know what is.

For some reason, Pete smiles. “Because you haven’t punched me for it.”

As if in instinct, Patrick raises a fist. “That can still happen.”

“No.” Pete simply— and he really has no right to be doing anything  _ simply _ — wraps a hand around Patrick’s fist and lowers it back down. “You need to listen to me first.”

“I don’t need to do jackshit for you or—”

“ _ Look _ ,” Pete says, nearly pleading. “It doesn’t need to be real, alright? I’m not… I’m not expecting it to be real. I just need a reason for my band not to go murder yours.”

This, at least, captures Patrick’s attention. “Excuse me?”

Pete pulls back to run his hands down his face. Patrick does not think of how cold his own hand feels now, doesn’t linger on the feeling of calluses brushing across his knuckles.

“This band’s the only thing I got going for me, okay? I’m only in college because my music shit hasn’t taken off yet but… but I really think it could. The only problem is that we’re a fucking timebomb and I can feel it. It’s just a matter of time until someone throws a swing at the wrong guy or we fuck up the wrong gig,” he says, almost sighing the words. “If we get disqualified, that’s it. These guys are walking away and they’re never looking back and I can’t fucking afford that. And I know you’re in the same position, alright? I know the other assh—  _ members  _ of your band and I know that they might take the music seriously but that won’t stop them from stupid pranks or stupid fights. And then Patterson is done with, too.”

Patrick hates to admit it but Pete’s almost being reasonable; still, he refuses to let his guard down.

“Don’t pretend to know anything about me or my band,” Patrick says, though the words lack the heat they had before. Pete almost grins, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Okay, I won’t. But I can guess and it isn’t pretty.” He looks down, kicking at the unused smoke bomb on the floor. “They sent you in to pull a stupid prank and, I mean, you obviously didn’t follow through. How long until they try to plan another one? How long until they get you kicked out of the battle? Oh, and who do you think they’ll blame first? Newer members never stay for long, trust me.”

With each word, Patrick’s reminded of why he can’t stand Pete. He knows every way under his skin, prodding at weak spots and pointing out fears in the most insensitive ways he can. Patrick’s hands form fists but he doesn’t hit him— only because he can’t.

“And your grand plan is for us to date,” he says dryly. “Genius.”

“My grand plan,” Pete says, “is for us to pretend to date. Just until the competition. If we’re together, our bands will be less likely to attack each other— bro code and all that, right? And, hey, maybe we can unite the warring households or whatever.”

“Don’t try to make it seem like Romeo and Juliet. It’s not,” Patrick snaps. “And I haven’t even said yes.”

Pete continues to smile.

There are so many reasons to say no— band loyalty and his own dignity on the top of the list— but Pete’s one reason to say yes just might trump them all. As much as he hates it— as much as it makes his skin crawl— he can relate to Pete’s plight. 

Give his music the chance to succeed or sink it and prove everyone else right.

The thought of his mom’s pitying smugness or his siblings’ taunts spin around his head, a prophecy of what’s to come should he fail.

And he doesn’t want to fail.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, directing his gaze down at his shoes. “You’re still an asshole and I don’t trust you so… I’ll think about it.” 

The words make him feel sick but it’s too late to take them back.

Pete scoffs but it doesn't sound half as harsh as it could. “Wimp. But, whatever. Hey, can I give you my number? You know, for when you change your mind?”

Pete pulls out his phone, seemingly unaware of how lucky he is to have not been hit in the mouth at this point— the kind of hit with chipped teeth and fucked up jaws. As Patrick digs out his own phone— grumbling about entitled idiots and stupid bands— he vividly imagines how good Pete’s lips would feel on his fist.

In an entirely violent way, of course.

Or so he tells himself as Pete bites his lip and grins again.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

A few days pass and, despite the number tainting his phone contacts, Patrick hears nothing from Pete. He hadn’t expected— or wanted— to be convinced but the utter silence has caused more anxiety than he’s sure he could have ever predicted. 

As if on cue, the doorbell rings and his eye twitches— whether from frustration or worry, he’s not sure. Not for the first time, he wonders if it will be Pete waiting outside his door, smiling sleazily and swearing to his mom that he’s Patrick’s cool older boyfriend. 

It’s either that or Joe and, at this point, Patrick honestly doesn’t know what he should be hoping for.

Footsteps thunder down the stairs to join him in the basement, enough sets that Patrick knows it’s just the rest of his band showing up for practice, each with a tiny bag of fruit snacks in their hand. Patrick doesn’t know at what point his mom’s going to realize that band practices are  _ not  _ equivalent to the playdates she always seemed to dream he’d have as a kid.

Well. Now that he thinks about it, his mom’s probably better off pretending these are toddler-esque playtimes. It’ll help ease her mind each time she notices how few friends her youngest son has.

“Yo, Stump!” Joe calls out, effectively breaking Patrick free from his thoughts. “Your mom’s the actual best. She got us snacks, man.  _ Snacks _ .”

Patrick tosses his phone to the side—  _ no _ , he wasn’t waiting for a text from Pete, shut up— and groans. “As she always does.” He leaves out the part that such snacks are never offered to him. Years from now, he’ll be able to trace half a dozen breakdowns to that. He can already see the therapy.

“Anyway,” Joe says, setting down his guitar case and sprawling across the couch. Wyatt and Terry start setting up mics and amps as if they haven’t realized by now that practice doesn’t start until the last five minutes. “Let me tell you my new idea.”

It’s only the fact that Joe dragged him into this band that keeps Patrick from spouting out that Joe never has any good ideas; even then, placing Patrick in with kids who see music as a side project can easily be argued as a terrible idea, as well.

Still, he sighs and prepares for the worst. “What?”

Joe grins, a sign of disaster if Patrick’s ever seen one. “We fill Arma’s amps with glitter.”

It takes Patrick longer than he’d like to admit before he reacts.

“What, like my brother did to me?” He asks, wrinkling his nose. His brother, Kevin, still mocks him about the weeks it took for Patrick to rinse all the glitter from his hair— everywhere on his body. “Dude, why?”

“Because,” Joe says like it’s obvious— and, of course, it’s obvious to everyone but Patrick, “they deserve it.”

Patrick won’t argue that point— he still hasn’t forgiven Pete for holding him hostage in a closet, no matter his intentions— but he refuses to give in as easily as he had last time.

“You remember the new rules, right?” Patrick asks, scowling as Terry fiddles with one of the guitars left in the corner. Patrick’s  _ told  _ them not to mess with the extra guitars in the corner; he uses those to help compose melodies, not for messing around. “We could get disqualified for that shit.”

“Only if we get caught,” Joe says. 

Patrick’s eye is twitching again.

“If you are willing to risk this band’s place at the battle, I’m going to have to ask you to get the fuck out of my house,” Patrick says. Joe laughs—  _ laughs _ .

“Oh, come on, imagine their faces!” He says. “And I know just how to do it, too. You remember Pete’s house, right? Well, one of his neighbors knows the code to his garage so, like, we just get him to tell us that and then we’re  _ in _ .”

“It sounds stupid,” Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

As expected, Joe snorts. “You sound stupid.” A pause— Patrick hits him in the shoulder. And then, “Seriously, why are you so against it?”

“The  _ rules _ , Joseph,” Patrick snaps. “I’m not helping you idiots break the rules.”

“You’re so punk rock,” Joe says, rolling his eyes. “You really think they’ll enforce something as dumb as that?”

Patrick… isn’t actually sure. There’s no way for the judges and organizers to know about every little prank pulled unless somebody snitches; and Patrick may not have been in the scene long but he knows for a fact that snitches and talkers… Well. He’s heard stories. Point is, Pete— and his band— would be better off letting Patterson off the hook than they would be going to Andy about it.

But, then, when has Pete ever done anything expected? He seemed pretty serious about not wanting  _ his  _ band to break the rules and, sure enough, Arma hasn’t done a thing since then. It may not mean anything but…

Patrick shakes his head, trying to get Pete from his thoughts. A little caricature of Pete’s become a bit too comfortable in Patrick’s mind— especially whenever Patterson starts acting stupid— and the longer he stays, the more seriously Patrick considers his offer.

And Patrick really doesn’t want to consider his offer.

Though, if he were— hypothetically, entirely hypothetically— to consider it, it would be somewhere along the following train of thought:

His band would hate him, that’s a given. There would be cries of disloyalty and broken trust and betrayal and threats to kick him out.

But, Patrick knows, those would just be threats. Sure, they’re bound to be apoplectic at first but, when it all comes down to it, they need a drummer like Patrick needs music and, besides, Joe’s his friend. He wouldn’t toss Patrick out so harshly.

The next part would be Pete’s friends— the greatest collection of assholes Patrick’s ever had the displeasure of meeting. Arma Angelus has been around longer than Patterson, though, so Patrick’s not quite sure if they’d be quite so unforgiving towards Pete. Perhaps they wouldn’t understand or they’d tease Patrick but, Patrick’s sure, they’d follow— what was it Pete said?—  _ bro code  _ and leave Patterson alone. 

And Patterson would do the same.

Hey, he’s read  _ Romeo and Juliet _ — he and Joe were in the same English class, for fuck’s sake; he’s sure he’d be able to play the part of “please don’t harm my lover” if he really wanted to.

Which leads to the most important piece— he really doesn’t want to. He’s not being overdramatic when he thinks of Pete’s band as the absolute scum of the earth and, yeah, he blames them for the entire situation getting this far in the first place.

All of which, Patrick thinks, lends to one result: he can’t fake-date Pete Wentz. Why the hell would he help that asshole, anyway? Because they’re facing the same problem here? Pete painted it like it was an us vs them situation and, sure, it is-- but only a little.

The bigger picture is that, even if they're both screwed, Patrick's not going to risk his dignity for it.  _ Enemy of my enemy be damned _

Patrick grins at the thought, a slight twitch in one corner of his mouth. Maybe he can sneak that in as lyrics somewhere.

Joe’s still talking when Patrick blinks and realizes he’d been zoning out. He tries to catch up on the conversation, Joe’s tone towards the whole band as they discuss what songs they want to play for the battle. It sounds like a conversation Patrick should be part of and, though he’s uncertain what’s been said at this point, he still prepares to toss out his completely unwanted two cents.

It’s at this point that his phone lights up, peeking out from between the couch cushions, and saves him from the opportunity to make a fool of himself.

He shouldn’t check because, let’s face it, he doesn’t have very many friends and the friends he does have are seated in the room with him. Logically, Patrick knows exactly who this is and, logically, he knows he shouldn’t answer.

“Okay, but what if we trade out a song for one of those long guitar solos?” Terry says and Patrick realizes that, really, nothing can be worse than listening to this.

It’s Pete— who else would it be?— but it’s not the message Patrick had been… expecting.

Not wanting, of course. He’d never want to be convinced into being Pete’s fake boyfriend. Of course not.

_ yo pattycakes—  _ the text starts off with as much cringe as possible, Patrick notes—  _ major sos. look out for arma guys armed with water guns. headed ur way now. _

Patrick blinks, his thumb sliding across the screen as he tries to properly process the words. His eyebrows furrow together, the text swimming across his vision as he tries too hard to wonder if Pete means his band’s headed their way or if it’s just going to be him.

Before Patrick has an answer, another text comes through.

_ ps: it is not water in the guns. repeat. not water!!! they r setting up beside ur house go stop thm _

Patrick does the smart thing and shuts his eyes before he can convince himself that one of them is twitching again.

It’s just like Pete to send a shitty text like this instead of fixing the problem himself. He’s probably hiding out in his house, away from any sort of blame that can get tossed when Arma Angelus ambushes Patterson. Oh, and, of course, Patterson would get caught in that, too, wouldn’t they? Patrick might be trying out this whole pacifist thing for now but, he swears, if any other band members come at him with water guns— and he kinda doesn’t know what Pete means by “not water” but he also kinda knows Pete’s reputation— he’s going to start another fight.

Then there’s the chance that this is part of a bigger prank— that Pete’s turned his back on peace and tossed all hope to the wind. It’d be fitting of his personality to lure Patrick into a false sense of security only to take both bands out with a blaze of piss and other questionable fluids. The fact that he texted Patrick at all is suspicious enough. Not enough details to really prepare him for whatever he’s going to face— and he will face it, he isn’t some child; just enough to lead him into whatever frenzied attack he has up his sleeve. And, with Patrick’s luck and Pete’s plans, the humiliation will last as long as possible.

Patrick doesn’t have the chance to accept his fate before he’s standing, not so much resigned as he is dead inside. In his imagination, he’s already seen and lived through the Patterson/Arma war; at this point, nothing can hurt him worse than what his mind is concocting.

“I need to go check on something real quick,” he says, pocketing his phone and nodding to the other guys. “If I’m not back in, like, ten minutes, feel free to assume I’ve been murdered.”

Joe nods. Patrick’s not sure if he’s comforted by the action or not.

With each step upstairs, Patrick’s certainty that he’s marching into battle only grows. His muscles tense, his hands form fists, and he doesn’t even steal a cookie from the plate his mom has set out.

Well, he tries not to steal one but eventually decides that to do so would  cookie she offers. To decline the first would be to let her know that something’s wrong and, while he may be a soldier off to war, he isn’t about to worry his mom over it.

So, it’s with a cookie in his stomach and determination in his chest that he storms outside and heads for the location— vague and quite general, really— that Pete had told him the prank was occurring.

He spots a dark head of hair first, followed by a tight black t-shirt sprouting tattooed arms. 

When Pete turns around with a shit-eating grin, is Patrick really supposed to pretend to be surprised?

“You fucking asshole, I knew you were setting me up for something!” Patrick says. He supposes he could kill Pete here and now— if this was an ambush, the rest of Arma is doing a horrible job of showing up— but it’s always good to get a confession first. Innocent until proven guilty and all that. “I knew there was more to that text!”

“Well, yeah, okay, but—” Pete stutters and holds his hands up as if he has any right to act sheepish. It’s a horrible decision, by the way, because nothing can make that smirk look any less cocky. “I really needed to talk to you.”

“Isn’t that why you have my number?” Patrick keeps storming forward but, though Pete’s the one backed against the side of the house, he can’t help but feel a little cornered by the victorious gleam in Pete’s eyes. “Besides, what the hell would you need to talk to me about?”

“Dating, duh,” Pete rolls his eyes and—  _ oh my god, he actually said “duh” out loud.  _ He drops the smirk for a moment, looking at Patrick with what’s probably supposed to be a pleading glance but really comes across a bit creepy. “Look, my guys aren’t listening about the pranks and shit. They’re on their way here and I won’t be able to stop them. We all got the notice about the rules, yeah? No-strike system? I’m not risking this so, unless I get a star-crossed lover in the next few moments, we’re screwed and—”

“You’re screwed,” Patrick cuts in, ignoring him completely. “There’s no  _ we  _ about it, dipshit.  _ You’re  _ screwed. My band’s not doing jack to get disqualified.” He helpfully leaves out the part where Joe was just planning a prank a few moments ago.

“Oh, and how long do you think that will last?” Pete asks, folding his arms over his chest. “I know your band, okay? They’re just as bad as mine.”

He doesn’t have a point, Patrick tells himself. The second he starts pretending that Pete makes sense is the exact moment he starts to lose the battle. It’s like arguing with Socrates— you agree to one stupid premise and your entire stance falls apart.

Not, he thinks, that Pete is anything like fucking Socrates.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says. 

Pete raises an eyebrow and it’s a simple action and it really shouldn’t look as infuriatingly hot as it does. “That implies you have a chance to begin with. Unless, I mean, you can look me in the eye and swear that your band isn’t even joking about pulling some shit in the next few days.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick says. He knows it’s a stupid response but, really, what else is he supposed to do when Pete asks him to look into his eyes? That’s just not playing fair.

“Right. That’s what I thought,” Pete says. He sighs and tugs at the ends of his hair, eyes shut tight as if Patrick’s being difficult. “Look, it doesn’t have to be a big deal, okay? I just need—”

“Yo, Wentz! Get started without us?” Chris’ voice carries across the front yard to find Pete and Patrick hiding beside the house, the rest of Arma following him with hands full of water guns.

It’s not that Patrick’s scared, okay? When he shrieks and shoves Pete forward, it’s a simple case of fight or flight.

“You deal with them,” he hisses, hoping he can run off before Chris recognizes him as the guy who split his lip— a cut that’s still nice and red even from this distance. “I’m gonna go hide inside and—”

“Patrick!” Joe calls. Patrick’s heart has never sunk faster than it does now. “Patrick, man, you dead?”

Right. Because, apparently, if he isn’t back down in ten minutes, he’s dead. At least he can take comfort in the knowledge that Joe will, in fact, come searching for him if he goes missing.

Joe, it seems, and the rest of their band.

They appear from the other side of the house, innocent and carefree until they catch sight of the current invaders.

“Shit,” Joe swears, stopping quick enough that Wyatt runs into his back. “Fucking  _ Arma _ .”

Chris grins, sharp and cruel, and aims his gun. “Damn, this is so much easier than I thought it would be.”

If Patrick’s friends were smart, they’d go back inside and let Arma Angelus take the fall for this prank. They’d hide out and let Andy know that Pete’s band broke the rules.

Of course, Joe keeps walking until he’s at Patrick’s side. “The fuck are you guys doing here? They put a rule against pranks.”

“Rules are only fun if you break them,” Chris says. “Now, I’m gonna count to three and all of you pansies are gonna be—”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Pete steps forward, hands waving around as he grins. “Come on, let’s just head back. These losers aren’t worth the trouble.” 

Patrick’s not quite relieved but he does appreciate the help. 

Though, he would appreciate it more if it actually worked.

“Don’t screw with us,” Chris laughs, nodding to the others around them. “Wasn’t this your plan, anyway?”

And, just like that, Patrick’s budding faith in Pete drops away.

“You planned this?” He accuses, pointing at Pete. “You said you wanted to stop it!”

“I planned it before I knew about the new rules,” Pete snaps, turning to face Patrick. “You really think I would—”

“Are we gonna mess their shit up or what?” Chris asks. Joe shoves himself in front of Patrick, putting himself directly before Pete and Chris.

“Just try it, asshole,” he says. He turns to face Pete, eyes narrowed. “I should have known you guys would do something like this.”

Patrick’s certain that the irritation is carving a hole directly into his brain. “Let’s just go inside before—”

“I say we get them before they get us!” Terry— the biggest idiot Patrick has ever had the displeasure of meeting— says, unraveling the hose from the side of the house. Wyatt stands at the knob, prepared to blast Arma Angelus with a stream of water.

“Okay,  _ no _ ,” Patrick says, pointing at them now. “Not only is it against the actual battle rules but, like, my mom will kill me guys, really— Pete, do you want to fucking help?”

“Help?” Pete asks, still standing in one spot. “What exactly do you want me to do, Patrick?”

“We want you to get out!” Joe says, shoving Pete’s chest. He’s not the strongest kid but he has enough anger behind the action to send Pete stumbling back towards his band.

Pete’s eyes narrow in return and Patrick can already see the disqualification notices. 

“Listen, jagoff, I really don’t want to fight with you right now but you’re pushing your luck,” he says, shoving forward and grabbing the front of Joe’s shirt. It’s not entirely undeserved but it does send Patrick’s heart racing.

“What happened to no fighting?” He cries out. Fuck, he’s going to get disqualified and the band’s gonna fall apart and his mom’s going to be so fucking  _ smug  _ about it all— she always did compare him to his dad, too into music to ever actually take part in reality. And he’s going to end up at a community college and get a fucking  _ desk  _ job— he’s gonna be an accountant or some shit and the thought alone is making him want to tear his own eyeballs out— and there’s no way to stop it but—

“Hey, Wentz!” Terry calls. He raises the hose, smirking and smiling and laughing as Wyatt prepares to twist the knob. “Watch out!”

“ _ No!”  _

Patrick leaps in front of the stream, a harsh blast of water knocking the beanie from his head as he takes the blow meant for Pete. It stings his eyes and fills his mouth, blinding him until his friends— though he’s seriously reconsidering calling them  _ friends _ — shut it off seconds later than he thinks they should have.

He sputters for breath, spitting out the water and using his shirt— useless and soaked— to dry his eyes. All’s quiet— or maybe that’s just water in his ears— and his cheeks burn with humiliation.

“Patrick?” Joe asks, confused and horribly soft. “Why—”

“I’m dating Pete, okay?” Patrick snaps, looking up at Joe with fire in his veins. Joe stumbles away from Pete, eyes wide. “I’m dating him so you can’t fuck with his band. I won’t allow it.”

He expects the sudden exclamations of “what the fuck?” and “ew, man, gross!” but that doesn’t mean he isn't infuriated by it. Joe’s eyes begin to bug out, his gaze switching between Pete and Patrick as he backs away, stumbling over his feet as if there’s a virus he can catch from being too close to the supposed lovebirds. Even Terry and Wyatt watch him with slack-jawed expressions, horror coating each one of their features.

Patrick would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the exact same way.

“Woah, Wentz, really?” Chris asks, though it sounds considerably less disturbed than Joe had— if anything, he almost sounds smug. He looks over at Patrick, scanning him up and down; Patrick fights not to turn away like a blushing damsel, even when Arma’s members spend a bit too long watching his mouth. He’s heard all the jokes before and he has no doubt that they’re thinking the same vulgar things. 

Pete doesn’t help, grinning and slinging an arm over Patrick’s shoulder after coming to stand at his side. “Really. We’re stupid for each other. Right, Pattycakes?”

Patrick burns with nausea and shame, his stomach sick. He fights down a gag and leans into Pete’s touch, angered heat spreading from every inch Pete’s hand covers.

Anything for his music, right?

He forces himself to smile and pretends the action doesn't hurt. 

“Right.”

 


	3. Walking Out On You's Still The Best Thing That I Ever Did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick discovers he hates everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the wait!
> 
> I don't actually really have anything to say other than thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this! I may not reply to comments right away but please know that I love them :)
> 
> Anyway, um, this chapter should be interesting. Look, I wrote half of it a week ago and the other half was done when I woke up last Friday. And I got maybe a total of four hours of sleep this weekend (cough cough WRIGLEY) so editing and proofreading might be weird? I don't know, I got this far in the posting process so some part of my mind must think it's good.
> 
> Please enjoy!

“Let me put it this way,” Joe says, spinning his straw around in a melting milkshake. “It’s highly suspicious and fucking strange that you never thought to tell anyone. Just…  _ strange _ , man.”

Strange. That’s an interesting word choice. Patrick glances around, taking in the sight of Patterson and Arma Angelus members squished into the one corner booth at a local diner like best friends, then looks back at Joe’s offended face. Chris sits beside him, half in his lap as he digs into one of the many baskets of fries they ordered, nodding along to Joe’s accusations. Pete’s on Patrick’s side, leaning into his band members inside the booth though he keeps a hand strategically— or frustratingly— placed on Patrick’s thigh. The waitress sends them dirty glares each time Terry or Wyatt jump up to sit on the back of the seats, complaining loudly about the lack of room and shouting in agreement when a guy from Arma says the same.

And, through all this, Joe keeps his irritations aimed at Patrick. Through all this fucking chaos, he has the  _ audacity  _ to call Patrick’s supposed relationship  _ strange _ .

They passed  _ strange  _ a long time ago.

They’re so past strange, in fact, that Patrick’s not even certain his actual soul’s in his body right now. It’s like he’s watching the scene from a movie theater in his mind, his will to live seated next to his logic as they watch the failed film that is his life.

So, of course, his intelligent response to Joe’s accusation, is a heartfelt, “I’m really sorry you feel that way.”

Joe narrows his eyes further.

Okay. Fair enough. But is Patrick really supposed to be anything other than sarcastic when he’s shoved into a diner booth with two rival bands teaming up against him? The only thing worse than doubling the number of people upset with him is discovering that Pete’s stupid plan would actually work. He feels entitled to a little sass— not that he will ever admit to owning the trait. Ever.

“Okay, but, like, what I don’t understand is how that happened,” Chris says from across the booth, mouth stuffed with fries. Patrick looks away, his throat fighting down a gag.

Pete, however, seems unfazed and laughs. 

“It’s not that amazing a tale, dude, really,” Pete tosses a heavily tattooed arm across Patrick’s shoulders and Patrick’s almost relieved that Pete has a story ready to tell the others; they hadn’t had the chance to talk about what to say and, at this point, he’s not willing to answer any questions about this relationship unless it’s about breaking up.

Of course, that’s when Pete says, “Just ask Patrick!”

And, yeah, Patrick’s ready to kill him.

Murdering his fake boyfriend, however, feels like it goes against the rules of fake relationships so he forces himself to smile— tight-lipped and twitching— back at Pete.

“Excuse me?” He says, hoping it doesn’t sound half as pissed as it feels. Chris’ raised eyebrow, though, proves that it sounds worse.

“Wait,” Chris says, gesturing between the two of them with a limp fry. “Was it a hate-fuck gone, like, uh… Wrong?”

This time, Patrick doesn’t stop the gagging in time. He covers it with a cough, hacking out a lung and what’s left of his dignity as the rest of the band members look on.

Look, when he said he wanted to unite the bands, this isn’t exactly what he had in mind. He’d thought— in every situation where he imagined the fake dating would work— it would end up with a few moments of shouting, a couple sour glares, and reluctant acceptance. Maybe even a cameo from Leo DiCaprio. 

Instead, he’s stuck with this shit.

“Yeah, sure, if that’s how you want to put it,” Patrick says only because he doesn’t want to spend any time imagining how he and Pete could ever actually get together— let alone in the way Chris is suggesting. “A, uh,  _ that  _ gone really wrong.”

Of course, this is the time where he sounds more heartfelt than he feels.

“Dude, dude, what the fuck? What the  _ fuck _ ?” Joe says, looking at Patrick as if he’d offered to hate-fuck  _ him _ . “Is that why you were late to practice after the registration date? Were you fucking Wentz during our band practice? And— oh my God— is that why the firework prank took so long? Have you two just been sleeping together behind our backs?”

“Every single time you turn around,” Patrick says without missing a beat. What? Everyone already believes the story, no use going back on it now.

Besides, Joe’s red face and bugged-out eyes are completely worth the overdramatic reactions of pretty much everyone else, fries tossed across the table and someone in Arma choking on their drink. Pete’s question about what Joe meant by “firework prank” is overrun by Terry and Wyatt agreeing that, yeah, Patrick’s constant hat fixation makes so much more sense now that they know he’s covering sex-head. Patrick doesn’t dignify that with a response though he does tug on his beanie and decide in that very moment that, the second he wins Joe over, they’re out of the band.

Assuming he still can win Joe over, that is. The utter look of betrayal painting his face currently has Patrick a bit uncertain about that right now.

“I didn’t even know you were gay,” Joe whispers across the table— meaning it’s the kind of whisper that shuts everyone up at the exact wrong time. Heat rushes to Patrick’s cheeks, bright and unforgiving, and his hands form fists beneath the table.

“And you’ll be lucky to know anything else if you keep this shit up,” he snaps, turning his head. He hates that it causes him to lean into Pete, hates that his stupid smile is the first thing he sees. “Fuck, it’s just a relationship. Should it really be that big a deal?”

Joe, thank goodness, is silent as he pulls back from the table, a subtle shade of shame covering his cheeks when Patrick dares to glance back over. He looks sorry enough that Patrick should forgive him but forgiveness isn’t going to get the rest of these idiots to shut up; forgiveness isn’t going to make him hate this any less. 

He can put up with fake-dating Pete. He can put up with stupid jokes about sex and jailbait. Fleeting rage appears at each insulting statement but, he knows, he’ll be able to find the humor in that later. Patrick may be pissed and humiliated and frustrated but, in the end, it’s a meaningless moment in the great expanse of time.

But then Joe just had to go and ruin it, didn’t he?

When Patrick used to imagine coming out, he couldn’t do so and still hold onto any semblance of reality. He couldn’t picture himself in any situation where he’d have to admit that, oh yeah, he likes guys. His family’s always seemed to know without him having to say anything— though he still tries not to go overboard, afraid that he has their supposed understanding wrong— but the rest of the world has proven less than kind. It’s the type of secret he’s known he’d have to keep tied to his chest, behind his heart and against his spine— kill him before you find it out.

Fake-dating Pete was an impulse and he’s quickly learning how dangerous those are. When he imagined coming out, he might not have had a particular scene in mind but he could say this: it was always on his own terms.

His hands shake, fists too tight to keep still, as he swallows down curses and hatred. It was okay to play along with Pete, to rest easily in the fact that Pete would know it’s all fake. In the end, everyone would know it was just a joke but, for now, it feels far too real for Patrick’s comfort. With all the humiliation stirring around in his stomach, everyone’s lucky he hasn’t launched himself across the table to hit Joe with every ounce of fury he deserves.

Or, he considers, Patrick’s lucky no one’s hit  _ him  _ yet. He’s not stupid, okay? He’s a chubby little band geek who just admitted to his cooler friends and some older kids that he’s gay for an emo asshole in the rival band. From that perspective, Joe’s bewilderment is a little bit more understandable.

But just a little.

Patrick shakes his head, the nervous twitching in his eye feeling more pronounced as he falls back into the current conversation— something about Chris comparing Patrick to Pete’s ex-girlfriend. Patrick’s not quite sure who Pete was dating before but if the comparisons start with being able to put up with Pete’s shit, he feels like he might have to pity her.

“Aw, come on,” Pete says, fake-pouting, “Patrick here’s just as shitty as me. Riding that same wavelength is what helps us get along.”

Coming from a boyfriend, it’s a harmless joke; coming from a fake-boyfriend, Patrick’s certain it’s an insult. He’s halfway to hitting Pete, muscles tense and eyes locked on a specific tattoo on his shoulder, when he remembers that—  _ oh yeah _ — he’s supposed to be dating this dick.

It only makes him want to hit Pete more and, a bit later than he should have, he drops the fist and pretends to smile.

“You’re so sweet,” he says, feeling the weight of sarcasm thick and satisfying on his tongue. “I’m not even offended that you called me shitty.”

Pete’s smile flickers— a lightswitch sent to prove how bad he is at acting— and Patrick’s grin only grows. What? No one said he had to pretend to be in  _ love  _ with Pete. He’d totally be a sarcastic jerk to him even if they were actually dating.

Not that Patrick ever imagines them actually dating.

He leans into Pete’s touch, cringing at the sweaty warmth pressing into his shoulder now. It’s disgusting and horrific and, as the guys around them mockingly “aww”, Patrick’s ready to skip to the death part of this Romeo and Juliet story.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Joe pushes. His gaze goes to the side, then down, looking anywhere but in Patrick’s eyes. “I just thought you would tell—”

“I’m just wondering when Wentz’s standards changed. The last one’s stick figure leave you craving some flab?” Someone laughs, reminding Patrick that a simple waltz into the room as Pete’s boyfriend isn’t going to suddenly perfect the relationship between the two bands. They still hate each other; he and Pete have simply taken away the easy outlet of pranks and fights.

“Come on,” Pete says, his grip on Patrick’s shoulder tightening just as much as his voice does. A better actor than Patrick had thought, it seems. “Lay off, will you? This shit is exactly why we didn’t tell—”

“For what it’s worth, I think it makes sense that you got together.”

That’s Terry, the most traitorous of them all. Patrick’s head snaps up and he looks over to see Terry watching him— wide-eyed and supporting and shit— with a dopey smile on his face.

He, Patrick decides, will have to be the first to go.

“No, yeah, I get it,” Wyatt says, fucking corroborating Terry’s statement with a helpful nod. “You definitely had the same vibe when you met. Stubborn music assholes and all that.”

“Gee, Wyatt, tell me how you really feel,” Patrick says dryly, only to hold back the absolute insult he feels at the implication that he’s anything like the boy sitting next to him. A boy who, Patrick realizes with a small amount of relief, says nothing about these supposed revelations.

“Stubborn’s a word for it,” Chris scoffs, eyes lit up with friendly mischief. It’s not a light Patrick finds himself liking. “Pete’s a bit more on the full pig-headed side of the equation.”

Patrick nods, just a little, as he thinks about the way he was tricked— forced, trapped, whatever— into this stupid plan. His nodding, though, cuts short once he hears Joe laughing bitterly in return.

“What, does he fight about chord progressions, too?” He asks, actually looking at Arma Angelus with something other than disdain. Patrick bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. Everyone’s practically buddy-buddy with their enemies now and Patrick’s supposed to be the traitor for letting it happen. That’s fair.

“No,” Chris says. “But he will break your arm over lyric decisions.”

Joe lights up and it’s the worst thing in the world. “No shit! Patrick here is totally the same!”

And, just like that, everyone agrees that Pete and Patrick are meant to be, simply because they have a decent ear for good music.

Or, well, perhaps that isn’t quite the way to phrase it. Patrick’s heard those Arma songs, after all. If Pete’s forcing it to sound like that, then Patrick can’t easily say any of his music taste is decent.

“Okay, but the dark and light thing they got going on is very fitting, too,” another Arma Asshole— no, Patrick isn’t going to learn their names— says. “I mean, they do look good together.”

Patrick’s twitching moves from his eye and straight to his veins; at this point, an aneurysm would be a blessing.

“You think they look good when making out?” Chris asks as if Pete and Patrick have turned into stage performers, sitting by and willing to listen to this shit. Patrick opens his mouth, prepared to tell Chris off, when Joe looks over with the same resentful gaze he’d always saved for the band surrounding him.

“I think it would help me believe the story a little more,” he says. And, basically— fuck him.

“That’s really creepy and invasive,” he says, pointing at Joe. Then, he turns to Pete. “And don’t you fucking—”

Someone shoves his back; someone presses him forward.

Somehow, he ends up kissing Pete.

It’s quick and nothing, a press of their lips with no plan involved, but then Pete’s going back in, laughing and banging their teeth together messily as they kiss once more. The rest of the guys howl like it’s raunchier than it is and, really, it’s all his own pride that has Patrick biting down on Pete’s bottom lip, a hand wrapped in Pete’s shirt to keep him from pulling back before Patrick can really prove himself. He can’t have anyone thinking he’s too submissive, after all. He’d rather deal with the inevitable “feisty” comments than the ones about his supposed virginal appearance.

Pete still pulls back quicker than Patrick likes; not that Patrick likes the kiss, mind you, he just didn’t have the chance to properly show off his kissing skills. His tongue sticks out a bit as Pete leaves, a dog panting for something more as the rest of the world crashes back in with the chaotic orchestra of hooligans around them. By the time the rest of his senses come into play, Patrick’s holding tightly to the fabric of his own jeans, nails digging deeply into the denim. If he lets go, he might wipe off his mouth; if he lets go, he might pull Pete back in.

“That was disgusting,” Joe says amidst a chorus of nasty jokes. Patrick flips him off but he can’t seem to look back his way, too busy hoping Pete sees the absolute fury in his eyes…

Too busy hoping Pete can’t see how much he liked it.

“I just think you’re jealous, Trohman,” Pete says, smiling down at Patrick. “God knows I’d be choking on my envy by now.”

Patrick hates him and he hates the people around him. He hates this situation and he hates the jokes and he hates what he’s doing.

Still, when Pete’s hand slips down to wrap around his own, Patrick can’t help but grin.

It is just part of the act, after all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

After a while, Patrick decides the boys gathered around the table could talk until dawn if given the chance— not that he wants to offer or even suggest such a thing— and night falls with the heavy darkness of something come to haunt him. 

Or maybe that’s just the utter exhaustion he feels at the people still surrounding him.

Joe and a few Arma guys have finally moved on from the sex comments— thank  _ god _ , Patrick thinks desperately— and onto the Romeo and Juliet comments, catching up to the place he and Pete had been at days ago. 

When they unanimously agree he’s Juliet, Patrick discovers there is no god and all his previous gratitude was for nothing.

“It’s just the fair maiden thing he’s got going on,” someone in the other band says like he’s some graduate student explaining a final thesis— Patrick’s positive this boy has never stepped foot in a college in his entire life. “He’s younger, more emotional— I mean, he did punch Chris—, and he blushes a fuck-ton more than Pete does.”

“That’s so not fucking fair,” Patrick interrupts, slamming a hand down on the table.  _ No _ , he will  _ not  _ focus on the heat rising to his cheeks when everyone turns to look at him. “His— His, like, his skin’s darker! You can’t possibly tell if he’s blushing or not!”

“Are you trying to say I should be Juliet?” Pete asks, drawing Patrick’s eyes back towards his self-confident grin. Patrick hates that grin. “Because, like, I can try but I think we all agree you’d look better in the dress.”

Patrick actually  _ feels  _ his gaze become infinitely icier. He hopes Pete can sense the chill deep into his very soul. 

Assuming he has one which, by the way he laughs and ruffles the back of Patrick’s hair, he probably doesn’t.

Whatever. Patrick will just have to settle for pinching Pete’s thigh sharply beneath the table. The responding yelp isn’t as pained as Patrick had been hoping for but it does ease some of his frustration.

Some, though. Far from all of it and, at this rate, he’s a bit more likely to blow up than he is to simmer down if the night keeps going the way it has been.

“Alright, well, you all suck,” he says blatantly, shoving his way out of the table, unafraid to use his elbows. “And I’m going home. I have very important things to do.” He doesn’t mention that those things include hitting walls and kicking chairs. 

He’s finally out of the booth, ignoring Joe’s reminders about practice the next day, when Pete tumbles out after him.

“Wait!” He cries. “I gotta walk you back!”

Amazing, Patrick thinks. God isn’t around to save Patrick from stupid jokes at his expense but Satan stuck around long enough to put Pete in his life. Patrick tries to smile, he really does, but then Pete’s tossing an arm over his shoulder for the millionth time tonight and pulling him in way too close to his armpitt. Patrick’s struggles, though, only seem to encourage Pete to hold him even tighter.

Right, well, Patrick was wrong; Satan stuck around long enough to trick Patrick into fake-dating him. Of course.

It’s because of the not-so-sudden revelation that Pete’s the devil that Patrick feels considerable less guilt than he should when he rams his elbow deep into Pete’s gut— a miscalculation on his part; he was aiming far lower— and marches towards the exit while Pete’s recovering. If he’s half-jogging in a desperate attempt to escape… Well, can he really be blamed?

Apparently so, as the diner doors don’t slam shut behind him and, instead, remain open long enough for Pete to slide through. 

“So, the Capulets seem nice,” Pete says, following Patrick down toward the sidewalk. Patrick’s plan to ignore him pales in comparison to his desire to snap back.

“I will kill you,” he says, shoulders hunched in irritation. “Kill. You.”

“Uh-huh.” Pete seems unimpressed and, wow, okay, Patrick’s just going to have to  _ prove  _ his murderous intent. He takes a quick step toward Pete, shoulders bumping harshly as Patrick hopes a car comes in time to hit the asshole after he trips into the street.

Except— Pete doesn’t trip into the street. He stumbles a bit and shoots Patrick a wounded look. If all that wasn’t upsetting enough, he uses Patrick’s new proximity to his advantage and tucks him under his arm again.

“So, where’s home, Tricky?” Pete asks, causing Patrick’s nose to wrinkle at the stupid nickname. He peels away from Pete’s side— Pete surprisingly willing to let him go— and shoves his hands deep into his pocket. 

“Like, literally a block from here,” Patrick says. Pete hums, nodding to himself and pretending to be innocent; he’s a fool if he thinks Patrick can’t see him slowly moving closer.“We’re not going to run into anyone important so you can cut the act now.”

Another kicked puppy look finds its way onto Pete’s face. Patrick keeps his own expression neutral and dramatically takes a large step away from Pete.

The genuine shock and offense hanging onto Pete’s face are far more intriguing than the faked pout he had on before.

“Fine,” Pete whines, kicking the sidewalk. “But I’m still walking you home. It’d be suspicious not to, trust me.”

Patrick scoffs, side-eyeing Pete with as much disdain as he can muster. “Yeah, because everything up to now has proven that you’re, like, an absolute master at this shit.”

The look Pete wears next is not one that Patrick likes, at all. It’s all cocky and smug and it does weird things to Patrick’s stomach. When Pete quirks an eyebrow, Patrick immediately looks away and ignores how the aforementioned weird things are trying to, ahem, sink a bit lower in his body.

Stupid. It’s probably just food poisoning. Warm and tingly and anxious and—

“You’re not my first fake-date, Patrick.”

He doesn’t admit it— he certainly doesn’t like it— but, at that, all of Patrick’s nerves go cold.

_ “What?”  _

Pete laughs and, okay, look. Patrick’s not, like, jealous or anything. He’s simply  _ offended  _ and a bit fucking flabbergasted at the fact that Pete said it so easily. There has to be a rule somewhere about that: don’t mention fake-exes to fake-boyfriends. It just seems like common decency.

Still, Pete’s laughing and Patrick feels a bit too much like the fair maiden they were all mistaking him for when he fucking  _ blushes  _ and finds himself with no defense prepared.

“Aw, man, you’re so cute when you’re jealous,” Pete says, flicking the brim of Patrick’s hat. Patrick bats his hand away, muttering that he’s not fucking jealous. Pete, of course, ignores this. “But, yeah, it’s fucking awesome. I’ve had people for family dinners, couple discounts, making exes jealous, making friends jealous, playing pranks… Basically, If there’s a reason to fake-date, I’ve done it.”

“You sound like a fake-dating whore,” Patrick grumbles, tugging his hat further onto his head despite the warm summer-scented breeze brushing the back of his neck. “Must suck that no one actually wants you as a boyfriend.”

Pete doesn’t miss a beat and Patrick may be a drummer but he hates him for it. “Well, I don’t see any girls rushing to your side.”

“Yeah, because I’m gay, asshole,” Patrick snaps. “Or did you miss the whole discussion about my sexuality in the diner? I assure you, everyone else was paying close attention.” Tense bitterness clings to his tongue and words but, apparently, his anger isn’t the part Pete’s interested in.

“Wait, what?” He asks, sounding far more surprised than Patrick thinks he needs to be. “You’re gay? Like, actually gay? Like, not-part-of-the-act  _ gay _ ? Seriously?”

Patrick’s starting to think someone else had the honor of hitting Pete in the head long before Patrick ever had the desire to do so.

“Yeah, seriously,” he says. “Or did the kiss back there feel a bit too hetero for your liking?” 

No, Patrick’s not blushing because he mentioned the kiss; it’s entirely rage-induced, homicidal fury that paints his cheeks when Pete barks out a harsh sound of disbelief.

“No, but, like, you really don’t seem the type, my guy,” Pete says, tossing his own sexuality into question when he starts talking like a fucking dude-bro— all of which falls apart when he starts to stutter out an explanation. “I mean, you just don’t— Well, I guess… But, like… you know? We’re  _ together  _ and it’s fake and, like, it’s pretty obvious you don’t… but maybe you do? But you started that fight and you don’t… I thought you didn’t…”

“ _ Dude _ ,” Patrick says, all shock when he somehow translates what Pete’s trying to say. He pauses, turning to stare at Pete with a look of utter astonishment. “Are you suggesting I’m straight just because I’m not into you? Like, is being into you a requirement of being gay?”

Pete blinks, feigning innocence. Or maybe he really is that stupid.

“I mean, yeah,” he says and  _ oh my god he actually said yes _ . “It’s typically a good indication.”

Oh my god, Patrick thinks. Pete actually believes that.

“That’s not an indication,” Patrick says, incredulity keeping his voice from jumping a whole twelve or so octaves up the way he knows he’s known for doing. “That’s narcissism.”

Pete pauses, eyebrows furrowed together as he considers Patrick’s words. He seems like he’s searching for something in what he’d heard— humor, truth, sarcasm— and eventually narrows his eyes and leans forward a few inches.

“Okay, but are you sure you aren’t into me?”

“Oh my god!” And there goes his voice, right up the scale. “Yeah, I’m sure, alright? Now just shut up and walk me home.”

He turns and starts off towards his house again, blessedly visible in the distance, and assures himself that Pete does  _ not  _ need to know how unsure Patrick is. He’s, like, 50-50, alright? It’s a safe balance of thinking Pete looks decent— Patrick will not use any other word,  _ thank you _ — and knowing he’s an asshole. 

Pete, however, seems determined to shit all over Patrick’s half-assed calculations with a lazy grin and quick step in front of Patrick, a self-assured tone in his voice when he says, “What if I asked you to come stay at my place tonight?”

Patrick stops short but only because Pete’s standing in front of him, only because Pete’s blocking his way, only because Pete’s eyes hold every implication of exactly what would happen back at “his place”.

Slowly, quietly, Patrick whispers a response. “What the fuck?”

“Look,” Pete says, leaning back and looking Patrick over in a way that makes Patrick feel a bit bad for all the meals he’s looked at in the same way. It’s hungry and disturbing and, oh my god, Pete’s talking again— “I don’t  _ like  _ you, either, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you. You’re telling me you don’t feel the same way?”

Patrick has a string of curses on his tongue, some that might even turn Pete into a frog if he tries hard enough, but then he makes the foul mistake of looking into Pete’s eyes and what he finds… Well, that’s just not fair. Pete’s eyes are dark and strange, tempting and distracting, and Patrick wonders if they’d look the same from a different angle— above him, below him, beside him as their lips come close and he can  _ really  _ taste him this time, no cheap diner pecks and—

Pete smirks beneath the bluish starlight, the familiar shape of victory twisting his lips. It’s the exact look he had when he suggested Patrick was nothing but a groupie who finally slept with the right guy— the exact look he had when he proved he cared about no one but himself, that he wanted nothing but fun at the expense of others.

“Listen.” Patrick’s voice is nearly a growl, hatred for everything twisting the sound. “I’m doing this for my band— not for you and not because I want to. We can pretend to be a couple when others are around but that’s it. You don’t talk to me, touch me, or even fucking look at me unless it’s to place this part. You’re not Romeo and I’m not Juliet— you’re an asshole and I’m the idiot who got stuck in your trap.  _ That’s all _ .” 

Pete stares at him, mouth parted, and Patrick hates that any part of himself tries to feel guilty for this. Tugging his hat lower down his face, he shoves past Pete with a harsh shoulder-check, and marches toward his house, shoes slapping down on the cement as he goes.

“Can I still walk you home?” Pete asks. Patrick scoffs.

“You can go back to your friends,” he says over his shoulder. “And make sure you take the time to remind yourself I’m not part of that group.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't believe this Patrick has ever said a sincere thing once in his entire life. In the editing process, I had to go in and take out thirteen variations of the word sarcastic. I'm sorry.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are always loved :)


	4. But If You Only Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only boy who ever gave Pete the time was the one who wanted to knee him in the crotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and now pretty in punk is stuck in my head)
> 
> Hello, hello! Another update! I've just started this new writing system/schedule/thing and it's been helping me out like you wouldn't believe. There are a few other works I've been updating, as well, so check those out if you haven't yet! I always love comments on anything, haha
> 
> I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this fic and I hope that you continue to do so! Make sure you let me know what you think of this chapter!!

Patrick enters band practice just in time to see Joe shoot a shaken up can of Mountain Dew straight into the sky. 

Or, well, straight into the ceiling of Patrick’s basement. He doesn’t need to look to know there’s either a dent or stain now marring his mother’s speckled basement ceiling— also known as Patrick’s current living quarters. 

The three idiots around him start shouting about how awesome it was and Patrick laments the fact that he really wasn’t ready for his day to get worse.

“If my mom notices, I’m quitting the band,” he says, too tired to mean it as he collapses onto the couch. “And if any of you point it out to her,  _ you’re  _ out of the band.” The imperious command comes from deep within Patrick’s chest, a result of spending the first half of the day with Pete. 

Yes. Pete.

Look, Patrick didn’t want to spend the day with the guy. The diner deal had happened a handful of days ago and, aside from the occasional stupid goodnight or good morning text, Pete has actually seemed to have taken Patrick’s request to, as Patrick wishes he had put it, fuck off seriously.

Of course,  it still was no big surprise when Pete showed up  _ literally  _ outside Patrick’s window at some ungodly hour of the morning.

Nine a.m.

How he had found Patrick’s bedroom window amidst the shrubbery and unmown grass hiding it from view is something Patrick had refused to think about, biting back a screech at the demonic sight of Pete waving to him from behind the glass.

“Hey, Tricky!” He’d called out in a voice far too peppy for someone of his edgelord appearance. “I wanna hang out today.”

He's a toddler, Patrick decided. He’s fake-dating an absolute toddler.  But it wasn’t like Patrick could deny the asshole, not after he’d started tossing pebbles at the window and whining about telling all his friends about his plan to hang out with his boyfriend. 

“It needs to look believable,” he’d complained, drawing out every single word. “We need to act like a couple.”

Patrick wasn’t sure what he hated more: the asshole who gets off on fighting high school kids or the goddamned two-year-old who cries until he gets his way. 

Results pending.

Either way, he’d ended up back at Pete’s place, thankfully empty of any Arma guys, and spoke about music of all things. Patrick had joked— taunted, threatened— about Pete trying to steal music but Pete had assured— teased, condescended— that he doesn’t waste time on melodies. Instead, as everyone apparently knows, he writes the lyrics. 

Which led to the inevitable and fateful moment of Pete passing over angsty high school notebooks full of smudged ink scrawlings and doodles of skulls in the corners. Pete had bounced his knee nervously as Patrick scanned through it, waiting for praise or damning judgment, and he shoved closer to Patrick with each page turned.

The worst part? 

The asshole can actually write really well. Better than anyone in Patrick’s band, anyway.

The revelation was so shocking, world-turning, absolutely fucking mind-blowing that Patrick had excused himself to go home then and there. Band practice and all that. Maybe a chance to rework the sorry song lyrics Patterson’s got going on now.

Not that he said that last bit out loud. God knows what Pete would do if he knew Patrick was feeling insecure about his music, of all things. Best to let Pete believe Patrick’s a musical genius— which he is, in all things but, well,  _ lyrics _ — and confident in what he does. It’ll explain the victory for him with Patrick beats him— and breaks up with him— at the battle.

A battle, he thinks as Joe’s annoying guffaw brings him back to the present, they’ll only win if his band could actually practice during their rehearsals for once in their life. 

Before the hope is fully manifested in Patrick’s mind, he knows it’s impossible.

“So, if you’re only dating Pete to spy on his band, now would be the time to tell us,” Joe says, a seemingly random statement until Patrick glances down at the notification from— yep— Pete on his phone. He flips it over, face red, and ignores Joe’s statement. Of course, silence has never stopped people from pestering him before. “No, seriously. I get why you wouldn’t be able to tell us at the diner with the other guys around but if this is some femme fatale tactic you picked up from one of those stupid spy films, it would be awesome to know.”

Patrick takes off his glasses, rubbing them on his shirt, as he considers Joe’s words. Agreeing would be the easy way back into his pride and dignity but he knows better than to expect things to go so well.

“Are you still on about hating those guys?” Patrick asks. “You and Chris seemed pretty close when we all hung out— I figure if we need any sort of secret info, we just send you in to talk with him.”

Joe fakes a gag, kicking the Mountain Dew can currently spilling its contents into a fizzy puddle on the floor. It’s a great metaphor for Patrick, really— bursting and popping with useless energy when, really, he has no control over what happens unless it involves waiting to die next to a pair of cracked drumsticks in the basement. He stares at the puddle until Joe stabs him in the arm with his finger.

“Yeah, we got along since we didn’t want to ruin your whole dating thing,” Joe says, a more honorable friend than Patrick gave him credit for. “But, like, I’ve been thinking about it— well, we’ve all been thinking about it. We don’t like it.”

Though the relationship’s fake and Patrick’s certain no one dislikes it more than him, he can’t help the sting of humiliation at being scolded like a misbehaving child. 

“Oh, great,” he snaps. “Do I have to ask your permission to stay out past curfew, too?”

“No, man, shut up,” Joe snaps, sharing uneasy looks with Terry and Wyatt. An unspoken conversation passes; one Joe apparently disagrees with as he leans forward, the spokesperson for whatever they’ve agreed. “You’re part of the band, right? And it might not have been for the longest time but, um, we… Basically, we care about you. We don’t wanna see you get hurt and, dude, Pete’s known for hurting people. He has more exes than he has friends and for someone as impossibly popular as him, that’s a lot. And it’s hardly ever a pretty ending, either. He’ll… You can hit me for saying this but, look. Chances are he’s already planned out how he wants to break your heart and I’m not equipped to deal with that aftermath.”

Upon finishing, and despite, his words, Joe pulls away as if ready for Patrick to fight back and hit him. Instead, Patrick shrugs and reaches for a can of room temperature pop left by the couch. 

“You could be right,” Patrick concedes, thinking of how Pete had gloated about his fake-dating ventures. Patrick’s willing to bet his status as a player is less genuine than it seems. Rather than a notch in his bedpost, Patrick's simply a tool to help Pete’s reputation. He can live with that. As for the heartbreak? Well, no doubt Pete’s already planning their break-up; Patrick’s been thinking the exact same way.

Unaware of all this, the three boys around him share another uncertain look and Patrick revels in knowing something they don’t.

“I guess what Joe’s trying to say,” Terry says, as if Patrick needs a translation for this mess, “is that you deserve way better than that. Arma’s full of assholes so, like—”

“So there’s no point in wasting your time with people like them. Someone like you should have way higher standards,” Wyatt cuts in. Patrick can’t help the warm smirk growing in the corner of his lips, the satisfaction that, hey, apparently his band does think highly of him in some regards.

However, Patrick’s life ratio of nice moments to sucky moments doesn’t quite work in his favor and Terry nods enthusiastically, probably thinking that he’s helping when he says, “Someone like you shouldn’t be dating someone as talentless as Wentz.”

Patrick’s smile drops before he realizes he doesn’t like what Terry’s saying. He can’t vocalize why it upsets him and he certainly doesn’t want to think about it too deeply.

“Totally,” Joe says, nodding. “You’ve seen Arma’s shit and apparently Pete is the one behind all of it. I thought you’d sooner see someone like that dead than in your bed but—”

“Yeah, don’t fucking say shit like that,” Patrick snaps, muscles suddenly tense when he turns to glare at Joe, harsher than he’s glared at anyone this week. “I’m dating Pete. You don’t have to like him but you do need to accept the fact and get the fuck over it.”

Joe’s eyes widen and, though he’d typically fight back, he looks away with a twitch in his jaw, probably chewing on his tongue and wondering where he went wrong.

Patrick’s wondering the same thing.

It’d be easy to say it was the reference to sex—  _ again _ — but Patrick knows that’s not it. Sure, that escalated the whole thing but the first sense that something was upsetting was when Terry called Pete talentless and…

Okay. Patrick doesn’t fucking care about Pete’s feelings, alright? And he certainly doesn’t care about what anyone says about him. Patrick will be the first to shout to the world that Pete’s an asshole and an idiot and the last person Patrick would want to date but that doesn’t mean he’s going to sit around and let other people rat on him when he’s not even here. And Patrick had seen his lyrics, too. So he knows Pete isn’t talentless and, well, Pete might not know how to write music or sing or anything but he does have some talent and Patrick just hates to see talent discredited. That’s all. 

“Sorry,” Joe says, the word forced out of him by the awkward silence. “We’re just… Whatever. Sorry.”

Great. Now things are tense. 

Patrick bites back a groan and shakes his head, inviting the quiet back in when he finally checks Pete’s text. It’s stupid, as usual, and missing an unacceptable amount of grammar but it eases some of Patrick’s nerves.

_ 2day was fun,  _ Patrick reads _. Cn u cum over 2mrrw? My bnd is sucky during prctc + ill need my tricky t soothe th pain _

Patrick smiles— just a little and only because it’s funny to realize how good fake-dating is for his self-esteem. It doesn’t matter that it’s probably a staged text in front of Pete’s friends. The thought of someone wanting him around is almost nice.

_ Yes, alright,  _ he replies, purposefully implementing some form of grammar.  _ But only if you bake me cookies for the trouble.  _

A silly joke, a stupid tease. This is what couples do, right?

Pete’s reply is immediate.

_ ill write u a song,  _ he says. 

Silly. Simple. Stupid.

Patrick puts his phone down and tells himself not to grin.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“You’re ditching out on band practice?” Joe cries over the phone the next morning, his voice so stunned even the static shies away from it. “Dude, you never miss out on band practice!”

“Yeah, because it’s at my house, dipshit,” Patrick says, barely out of bed. He’d remembered his promise to Pete— though, he’ll admit, it was less a promise and more a suggestion— a bit too late, waking in a cold sweat to send out a text canceling practice. Joe, of course, isn’t taking it very well.

“That’s not what I fucking meant and you know it, you spineless little—”

“Do we even get anything done at practice, anyway?” Patrick asks, staring up at his ceiling. In a better life, there’d be some cool picture taped up to the speckled white expanse but, instead, he’s left with another empty area of his life. He blinks and shakes his head— far too early for such feigned profoundness. “Like, name the last time we did something other than fuck around and maybe I’ll consider showing up.”

Joe’s response is a screech born of hurt, rage, and frustration. It’s the same sound Patrick’s been fighting back for weeks so it only seems fair that Joe experience it, too.

“Look,” Patrick says, sitting up with a groan. “It’s not important, okay? Just one practice and then we can actually get to work the next day. You guys can start, like, I don’t know, tossing ideas around while I’m gone and then—”

“You’re a traitor, you know that?” Joe snaps, so harsh Patrick pauses and has to register that this isn’t friendly banter— Joe’s actually upset.

“What?” He asks, knowing full well what the answer will be.

“A traitor,” Joe repeats as if it didn’t sting properly the first time. “I know you’re going off with Wentz, okay? But at least have the balls to say it! God, it’s bad enough that you’re dating the enemy but now you’re gonna do the stupid thing and sneak around with him, too? Are you kidding me?”

There’s no response— no wit or quip that Patrick can concoct in time to save the conversation from spiraling. His cheeks burn from a shame he hasn’t felt before, a hurt he hates to admit. 

“That’s not fair,” Patrick says and it sucks because he can’t even explain  _ why _ . He’s doing this for the band, to keep them from fucking up their one chance at something good, and he can’t confide in anyone about it. He’s doing this for  _ them _ and he knew there would be anger but… “That’s not fucking fair.”

The second time, at least, he sounds a bit more like himself and Joe scoffs, unaware of Patrick’s true feelings.

“Whatever,” he says, flippant. “See you tomorrow, then, asshole. Or I won’t.  _ Whatever _ .”

“Joe, wait—” The tone of a disconnected call blares into Patrick’s ear, louder than it has any right to be. His thoughts and emotions run amok, teasing him with the reminder that he thought doing this— dating Pete— would be a good thing. He raises his phone, thoroughly prepared to shatter it against his innocent closet door when another beep has him drawing it back down.

It’s not Joe, not anyone important, really. Just Pete reminding Patrick of where he lives and when to come over, a stupid smiley face attached to the words.

It’s not a smile Patrick can return but it’s one, at least, he can pretend is real.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Within five minutes of stepping foot in Pete’s house, Patrick finds himself ensconced in all the warm smotherings not even a real boyfriend would have to put up with. Pete’s waiting for him behind the door so he can attack him when he comes in, arms tossed around Patrick like he’s an old friend come to visit. It’d be a nice comfort after the morning he’d had but Patrick’s luckless life continues as the assault occurs directly in front of Pete’s band.

“Ah, so the wife’s home, then,” Chris says as Pete leads them back to the living room. “He’s not gonna distract you from practice, is he?”

There’s an inside joke there Patrick doesn’t want to understand, not if all the snickering is any indication, and he just barely keeps his docile— fucking  _ docile _ , he’s making major sacrifices here— smile on his face.

They end up on the couch, Pete pressing Patrick up against the arm as he seemingly tries to morph them into one being. Arm hanging over Patrick’s shoulders and a leg laying over Patrick’s lap, Pete’s shoulder digs into his own and his breath is hot on Patrick's cheek each time he turns to talk.

Really, though, it’s nothing Patrick should complain about, right? It’s an annoyance, sure— in more ways than one, as he reminds himself not to shift beneath the way Pete’s practically sitting on his thighs. More than that, though, it’s an easy way to play the part. Sit still and let Pete be the clingy boyfriend; Patrick can easily get away with being the more prudish one.

Of course, Pete never lets anything stay easy for too long. Patrick’s been sitting there for barely twenty minutes, trying very hard not to listen to Arma Angelus try to write a song, when Pete leans forward and pokes his cheek.

“Yo,” he says, because that’s the right way to address anybody. “You’re all, like, tense. Is everything okay?”

Patrick tries his best not to sigh, he swears. They’re supposed to be in the heart-eyes phase of their relationship and that doesn’t typically come with heavy sighing. 

Then again, it doesn’t typically come with Pete Wentz, either. Patrick doesn’t know the guy that well but he seems far more likely to jump straight into the x-rated version of the honeymoon phase.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, snapping just a little as he grabs Pete’s finger to keep him from poking at his cheek again. He pulls Pete’s hand into his lap, trying to play it off as something sweeter even as he squeezes tight enough that Pete’s smile flickers in irritation. “My bandmates have just been dicks about the dating thing. That’s all.”

And that’s where the conversation should end. Chris is currently trying to convince the band that they need fewer drums on the song and that sounds like a crime if Patrick’s ever heard one so, really, Pete should go in and fix that mess before it gets any worse. 

Instead, Pete’s eyes light up and he leans impossibly closer into Patrick.

“Dude, no way!” He whisper-screams as if anyone cares enough to listen in. “So have mine!”

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“You realize that’s not actually a good thing, right?” He asks, mentally kicking himself when his voice comes out in a whisper. It’s not that he wanted to play along with Pete’s conspiratorial charades; it’s habit, really. “Like, I’m just wondering because it would explain a lot if that’s what you’ve been thinking this entire time.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Pete says, sounding every bit like Patrick’s older sister when she was fourteen and gossiping with her friends during those sleepovers Patrick was forbidden to know existed. “I’m  _ relating  _ to you, doofus.  _ Sympathizing _ . Showing you some fucking  _ solidarity  _ in the face of mean bandmates.”

Patrick doesn’t mean to laugh at Pete’s tone, he really doesn’t, but Pete’s so insistent and he sounds so offended that Patrick has no chance but to laugh lightly beneath his breath. He writes it off as hysteria— a side effect of fake-dating someone like Pete.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Another Romeo and Juliet parallel? Us against the world?”

“Totally,” Pete says with a smirk, each crease around his lips genuinely overjoyed that someone seems to get what he’s saying which, okay, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Patrick can’t linger on the thought for long, though, as Pete frees his finger and pokes Patrick’s nose. “We’re such star-crossed lovers, Trickster. You’ll see.”

Patrick doesn’t have the time or chance to tell Pete that— like mean bandmates— star-crossed lovers aren’t actually good. 

“Hey, lovebirds,” someone across the room snaps, another dark-haired punk mindlessly playing out a riff on his guitar as he glares at them. He clearly has talent— more than Patrick would expect from anyone in this band— but the disdain in his tone has Patrick biting back any conversation about his prodigious playing skills. “We didn’t show up at Pete’s place to watch you two canoodle.”

“ _ Canoodle _ .” Pete laughs— a full-bodied, high-pitched  _ ha ha ha _ — and buries his face in Patrick’s neck, an angle that has to be horrible for his spine. “Patrick, we’re  _ canoodling _ .”

Part of Patrick wants nothing more than to shove Pete away and wipe off all accusations that he’d do anything of the sort with the man. 

Another part of him laughs along, the inside joke he and Pete share making the world feel a bit more like laughing gas each time he breathes in. His insides tingle with disbelief that anyone’s buying this act, his fingers numb as they grip onto Pete’s shirt to keep them from tumbling to the floor. 

Across the room, Pete’s bandmate scowls.

“Laugh all you want, assholes,” he says, harsh enough that Pete’s laughter fades down into mere breaths against Patrick’s skin. Goosebumps and chills are cliches but Patrick certainly feels  _ something _ brush down his skin and spine in the seconds before Pete pulls away, an eyebrow raised at the pissed guitarist across from them. “But I bet you won’t be smiling when the little shit next to you turns out to be nothing more than a stupid spy for his band. God knows they need the help.”

Just like that, anger spills across the room in the same accusations Patrick’s heard before. Someone’s spying, someone’s cheating, someone can’t possibly have  _ good  _ intentions. A few other members of Pete’s band murmur among themselves, agreeing or waiting for a response. It’s only Pete’s weight across Patrick’s lap that keeps him from jumping across the room to tear out this asshole’s throat; it’s only Pete’s fist in the front of Patrick’s shirt— white-knuckled and tense— that keeps Patrick from seeing everything in shades of red.

“Okay. So here’s what we’re not going to do,” Pete says. In a matter of moments, his tone has changed; his _ everything _ has changed. Something blazes in his eyes and words, hot and cold all at once as he holds onto Patrick— an anchor, it almost feels like, keeping him from doing everything Patrick’s already imagined. “We’re not going to call my boyfriend names and we’re not going to insult his music. Fucking  _ Christ,  _ are you twelve? Or did you really think that was a good idea?”

Silence hits the room like a piano pushed off a roof, dangerously out of place with screeching chords tearing through each second. Patrick holds his breath and Pete does the opposite, panting as if he’d emerged from a fight.

No one speaks and this doesn’t seem to be good enough for Pete. He grabs the nearest object— a pillow, harmless— and tosses it in the other boy’s direction.

“You can either try to explain yourself or get it over with and apologize,” Pete says. “Adam, you’ve seen me in arguments. Do you really want to waste your time trying it?”

The guitarist— Adam, breaking Patrick’s streak of not knowing the names— goes red, hunched over his instrument as he plays out a harsh tune. If it weren’t for the stillness of everyone else, Patrick would see this all as a drawn-out joke. Does the hatred between the bands really run that deep?

“Fine,” Adam snaps, looking up behind long brown bangs. “ _ Sorry _ .”

He doesn’t mean it— it’s more obvious than the zits peppering his chin and cheeks— but Pete turns away as if the fact that it was said is all that matters. From the humiliated stain of red on Adam’s face, Patrick assumes it is.

The silence continues, interrupted only by Adam’s angered playing, until Chris coughs and tosses a throw pillow into the center of the room, proving his inability to properly understand the meaning of “throw pillow”.

“Come on, assholes,” he says. “We gonna sit around and bitch all day or are we actually gonna get shit done?”

Chris is standing before anyone has a chance to argue, mocking the grumbles the rest of the band gives as they slowly make their way to the garage for practice. Though he was the first to stand, Chris is one of the last to leave; he looks at Pete, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing, before following his band.

Patrick files it under Weird Pete Things To Think About Later— it’s a steadily growing pile of thoughts that he never really touches unless it's late and he really hates himself.

“Alright, then,” Pete says, stretching. “Time to go make some noise.”

Noise is a kind way to describe their sound and, since they’re alone, there’s nothing to keep Patrick from saying so. He opens his mouth to do just that.

“Why did you defend me?” Okay, so, not what he was going for but whatever. He burns as he speaks but the words keep coming. “I didn’t… I could have handled it.”

Pete smiles, teeth and bright eyes reflecting the sun beaming in from the glass door Patrick had snuck in through mere days ago.

“But the awesome part of having a boyfriend is the fact that you don’t need to defend yourself,” he says, probably quoting a line from the rule book he no doubt has about fake-dating. He shrugs, bumping into Patrick’s shoulder and then pulling him to his feet. “But don’t take it too much to heart. I just can’t stand their jokes.”

It didn’t sound like a joke and it certainly wasn’t anything worse than stuff Pete’s said before. It’d be easy for Pete to play it all off as part of their stupid game but…

Pete turns and winks as he follows the band to the garage, beckoning to Patrick with what’s probably supposed to be a seductive hand but is more akin to a flopping fish.

Still, a shocked silence is all Patrick can give— that, and the warmth of Pete’s defense safe in his chest.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

If Patrick had to point out the worst part of fake-dating Pete Wentz, he’d claim it’s the part where his band hates him and he finds himself over at Pete’s house far more than he’d like to. He’d claim it’s the part where Arma Angelus teases him and he can’t fight back the way he’d like to. He’d claim it’s the part where days pass, weeks pass, and he’s been at Arma’s practice more than he’s been at Patterson’s. Or, he’d claim that—

Well. The point is, there are a lot of worst parts of fake-dating Pete Wentz. Patrick realizes this after having Pete leap at him with stupid smiles and terrible nicknames approximately 20 times, tackling him to the ground and scraping his knuckles over his forehead in what could be affection but could also be an attempt on his life. 

Moments like this obviously end with Patrick’s fist staining new bruises into Pete’s gut— which, in turn, leads to the most disgusting series of coughs right in Patrick’s face as Pete recovers from Patrick’s anger.

Recently, though, the fury has dimmed in such instances. That’s not to say Patrick isn’t still pissed off whenever he sees Pete— it’s like a Pavlovian reaction, he swears— but it’s not as strong as it was. Every punch is followed by laughter and a smile; every stupid nickname or tease is softened by the brushing of their shoulders together, less a friendly bump than it is a reason for them to touch in any way they can get away with.

Patrick hates it. He’s sick of it. If it weren’t for the battle and the stakes, he’d break-up— or fake-break-up— with Pete and never look back.

Patrick only works up the nerve for such a thing once, a bad day after too much scolding from his band and relentless teasing from Pete’s.

“They aren’t fighting as much, anymore,” Patrick says when they’re curled up on the couch listening to Pete’s band try to write a song. Pete plays with Patrick’s fingers, fitting them against his own with a hum that implies he doesn’t much care for where Patrick’s going with this. It’s annoying but Patrick shakes his head, leaning forward so only Pete can hear him. “We don’t need to be doing this anymore.”

This is when Pete looks up; this is when Pete blinks and presses his hand flat against Patrick’s, callus to callus, blood pumping through their fingers at the same pace.

Their hands are having better luck with rhythm and song than either of their bands ever had.

“Do you want to stop doing this?” Pete asks and he almost seems like he means the sincerity of the question; he also seems like the sincerity is a lie.

Patrick takes a breath.

He shuts his mouth and looks away.

He doesn’t bring up a break-up again.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

A few days later and it really shouldn’t be this embarrassing to have Pete with him in his basement. Patrick's seen Pete’s place, okay, and it’s just as musty and dirty and cramped and, really, any sort of embarrassment is misplaced.

But, then, Patrick and Pete don’t usually spend much time alone in Patrick’s basement and having him here— without the band, without the band  _ knowing _ — feels every kind of wrong. 

“You know, if you want to learn bass, you’re actually going to have to pay attention,” Pete says, flicking Patrick’s ear. Patrick smacks him back, rolling his eyes and setting the bass aside.

“You don’t even play bass, asshole,” Patrick says. “You saying you were going to teach me bass was just an excuse to get out of band practice, admit it.”

“I totally play bass,” Pete says, slinging an arm over Patrick’s shoulder. It’s one of the weirder things Patrick’s accepted about Pete; he’ll still act like a boyfriend even when no one’s around. “And, hey, even if it was, I’m hanging out with you instead of practicing with my band. Shouldn’t you be more honored?”

“Honored that you’ve finally realized how stupid all your friends are?” Patrick asks. He means it but not in a mean way, not in an  _ I hate Pete Wentz  _ way, and it scares him just a little. “Or honored that you’ve realized just how fucking horrible it is to listen to you guys try to play?”

“Hey!” Pete says, smiling. His grip on Patrick tightens and he twists, shoving Patrick’s face into his armpit with a wicked grin. “Take that back, man, friends and music are off-limits for insults!”

“Your music is an insult,” Patrick says, barely breathing as he gags on the curse that is Pete’s body odor. Patrick always wondered whether his mom’s romance books— don’t judge him, okay, he found them while he was grounded and had nothing left to do— were right about the whole  _ he smelled like sweat and the sea and love  _ thing but Pete mainly smells like a boy who’s gone way too many days without a shower. A bit hypocritical for Patrick to judge but at least he doesn't go around forcing people to smell him.

As if sensing just how much Patrick hates this, Pete gets to work on crushing Patrick’s skull and possibly attempting to break Patrick’s nose using his body.

“Dude, stop!” Patrick says, arms flailing with fists on the end, making contact on something that makes Pete tense but nothing that will make him let go. “It’s not funny, you ass, let me out!”

“Admit that my band’s gonna beat yours,” Pete says, rolling around with Patrick’s kicking and thrashing. “Say that Arma’s gonna win!”

Patrick’s too scared to open his mouth let alone speak and he wouldn’t say such a blasphemous thing anyway. Pete’s laughing and making more crazy demands and Patrick keeps punching. Eventually, he hits Pete’s chin hard enough to hear his teeth clink together and makes his escape when Pete reaches to cradle the wound.

“That hurt!” Pete says, half-heartedly glaring at Patrick, who’s currently bent over and gagging— though he does have enough energy to raise his middle finger in Pete’s general direction.

“Oh, fuck all the way off,” he says once he’s able to breathe without feeling axe body spray on his tongue. His hat was lost somewhere in the mess so his own glare is obscured by the tangled hair falling into his face. “That was vile, dude. It was absolutely traumatizing and I have half a mind to exile you from my house. My mom’ll put a sign on the door and everything, okay, so— Oh!”

Pete launches— actually fucking  _ launches _ — himself at Patrick, pouncing like a cat who’s lost its mind. He shoves Patrick off the couch and falls on top of him, hands on Patrick’s shoulder and a smile in his face.

“You wouldn’t kick me out, Rickster,” Pete says, employing one of those stupid nicknames he promised was just for show. “You love me too much.”

“Yeah, right.” Patrick decides to be merciful, keeping his knees down and away from Pete’s crotch for the time being, no matter how tempting the idea is. “You know we’re not actually dating, right?”

Pete takes too long to reply and Patrick has a feeling it has nothing to do with how Patrick’s starting to nudge his thighs with his knees. 

“Right, sorry," Pete says and Patrick instantly knows he should have gone for the crotch-shot instead.

Pete stands quickly and it’s not that he’s changed from his carefree attitude or that Patrick’s changed into something more lost and confused… It’s that the entire atmosphere has changed, the playfulness drained and replaced with something heavy, something Patrick’s been pretending couldn’t ever exist.

“What, giving up that easy?” Patrick asks, his voice steadier than his smile as he pushes himself up to his elbows, looking up at Pete and hoping that he’ll say something and go back to normal— whatever the hell normal is for them. 

“No, I just… You’re right. I should get to band practice,” Pete says. “It’s wrong to be doing this.”

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick says, eyebrows furrowed together. “And what the hell do you mean by  _ this _ ?” 

Pete doesn’t answer his question, already shrugging on the hideous lime-green hoodie he’d worn here. “I’ll text you later.” And, with that, he’s running up the stairs and gone. And Patrick’s heart is thudding traitorously and his nails dig into the carpet and he’s alone.

And he still hates Pete Wentz so fucking much.

But maybe not for all the reasons he did before.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was alright, right? Leave a comment and let me know! I'll have the next one up... soon, maybe. I don't know, haha, but I'll try to have it sometime next week!
> 
> See you then!


	5. I'm My Own Better Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through the fic, there was bound to be drama somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Sorry it's taken a bit for me to start updating my fics, I hope you're all still out there enjoying them! This one's a bit over halfway through, let me know what you think!!
> 
> On with the chapter!

Pete starts ignoring Patrick first and Patrick will stand behind that fact until the day he dies. It was Pete who had run out from the basement, his hoodie barely zipped before he reached the top step— Pete, with all the texts he hadn’t responded to in the following hour. Dozens of swear words and accusations flew from Patrick’s thumbs into the screen, shoving down on buttons so harshly he wondered if he would break them. He asked Pete where he was and why he left, what he meant and if he’d heard a word Patrick said. And, when Pete didn’t respond— didn’t even bother with a “K” as most assholes would— Patrick tucked his phone away, kicked a few chairs, and forgot about it.

Well. 

He put the phone away and kicked a few chairs. 

Forgetting about it, on the other hand, is more of a practice in swallowing down the bitter resentment he feels each time he looks at the basement stairs. It’s biting back defenses no one’s asking to hear whenever his bandmates raise their eyebrows at his expectant gaze when they knock on the front door. 

It’s shoving his phone between couch cushions during band practice when Pete finally decides to text him back two weeks later. 

“You gonna get that?” Joe asks, nodding towards the now hidden phone without looking away from his strumming. Patrick shakes his head, pointedly walking from the couch to the drumset.

“We have practice, right?” He asks disdainfully. “It can wait.”

No one questions his response and Patrick’s grateful, even if it is just because they're all so sick of his stupid relationship.

“So we gonna rehearse or what?” He asks, tapping out the opening rhythm for one of the songs they’ve been thinking of performing at the battle. “Believe it or not, I do want to win this shit.”

This, at least, garners a smile from the rest of the band and a collective whoop from the other three. Patrick grins along with them, hoping they can’t sense the sick feeling crawling up his throat. He tightens his grip on the drumsticks to keep from racing back to the phone.

_ sorry,  _ Pete had said.  _  i forgot. _

Nothing else. 

Patrick bites his lip as the three words play through his mind, the beat he’s trying to ignore when the song starts and he hits the drums. Five syllables on repeat; one sentence he can’t understand.

Patrick knows a trap when he sees one. He knows how easily he can become the fool in this situation, how easy it would be to believe Pete had forgotten more than just replying to a couple of stupid texts. 

Just like Patrick’s going to do. If Pete thinks he can slide back into Patrick’s life with a few clunky words, then he’s as wrong as his music is awful. Patrick owes Pete nothing more than a hand to hold onto when the bands start fighting and even that is all pretend.

So when Pete inevitably calls Patrick out for ignoring him back?

Patrick’s just going to claim that he forgot, too.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The marvelous thing about deciding to ignore someone like Pete Wentz is that the rest of the universe seems to recognize Patrick’s decision and still find a way to fuck it all up.

There… are a lot of examples about this and, honestly, if Patrick was a diary-keeping boy he’d be able to write a best-seller based on his unfortunate attempts at dignity. Or, well, if he was  _ still  _ a diary-keeping boy; those days ended when he was ten and found out that the locks and latches attached to each journal came with an extra set of keys, conveniently located in his mom’s bedside drawer. He likes to think that moment was the real birthing of his supposed attitude problems.

This time, though, he has nothing but Pete and his bandmates to blame his sudden temper on.

He doesn’t know why, after years of living in the same town without any interaction with the band, he and the Arma Angelus members have suddenly had more chance encounters than a fan stalking a celebrity. He’s stood behind them in line at the store, feeling horribly embarrassed about the family-sized bag of chips he’d been planning on hiding in his room. He’s nearly been hit by a few while crossing the street, some of them shouting apologies while others would honk and rev as if planning to aim for him again. He’s even seen Chris walking his dog around Patrick’s neighborhood.

The last one is particularly descriptive of today. 

“Oh, hey!” Chris shouts, half-dragging his small black dog— so small Patrick was half-convinced it was a cat at first— across the sidewalk to catch up with Patrick. “What’s up, man?”

Objectively speaking, Chris has been the nicest to Patrick ever since the whole “I’m dating Pete” incident. However, he’s also the guy Patrick punched in the face so Patrick feels a bit justified in the fight-or-flight response welling up in his body when he forces himself to smile.

“Just getting mail,” he says, waving the two small envelopes in his hand as if there was ever any chance he was lying about it. “What about- Well, you’re walking your dog, so, I guess, how are things?” 

Patrick feels just as stupid as he sounds— which is probably a lot, going off Chris’ small chuckle. Patrick reminds himself that Chris being the nicest out of Arma doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy in general-- it's kind of like being the fastest snail.

“Good, I guess. I’d tell you about band practice but can’t have the enemy knowing our secrets,” he says. As if there are ever any secrets other than the question of how they manage to consider themselves a band. Patrick’s planning on saying something sarcastic— it’s not like Chris doesn’t deserve it— when he’s interrupted with the universe’s middle finger in the form of Chris’ voice. “Sorry to hear about you and Pete, by the way. Sucks.”

Patrick’s ashamed of how quickly he reacts to that.

“Wait, what?” He asks, cheeks already hot as he nearly loses his grip on the envelopes. “Is there— Am I missing something?”

Despite Patrick’s interrogative tone, Chris just shrugs and looks down at where his dog is pawing at one of Patrick’s neighbor’s lawns. Patrick hopes the sudden thudding of his heart is due to the cuteness and not Chris’ words.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess you wouldn’t know but he’s already moved on. Fastest I’ve seen him do, too, but whatever. Brought some other band’s boy to practice last night but, like, don’t worry. The guys and I all collectively agreed that you were prettier.” Chris looks up suddenly, eyes narrowed and vaguely reminiscent of Joe’s trademarked look of suspicion and over-protection. “Or should we all hate you? Pete didn’t say anything about how you broke up so I’m guessing it was either a mutual thing or he fucked up or—”

“Or, we didn’t, I mean, I—” He’s an actual stuttering mess. A real-life, idiotic, blushing and stammering fool who can’t comprehend that he’d been broken up with via asshole and his dog. 

“Oh, um, you good?” Chris asks, tugging his dog away from where it had started digging into some flower beds. Patrick barely hears him, breaths quick and blood pounding through his ears as he stares, unfocused, at nothing in particular. “Oh, shit, it’s not like— Wentz wouldn’t fucking cheat, I know that, but weren’t you guys clear in the breakup? Or did you still think that something was going on or was it an open thing, a friends-with-benefits thing, or—”

“Shut up,” Patrick snaps. Chris cringes away from the volume, sparing a worried glance at the neighbor’s house, but Patrick doesn’t care. He’s focused only on the thought of Pete tugging some other boy to his house, coming up with meaningless nicknames with someone else, sharing secrets and faking dates— or maybe even planning real ones— and all Patrick can feel is the white-hot rush of humiliated rage welling up from inside his bones and into the rest of his body. He can’t speak, he can’t move, he can’t even fucking  _ think  _ and he’s lucky he’s even breathing. Chris, by some miracle, keeps quiet until Patrick’s able to spit out two words. “Where’s Pete?”

“Home,” Chris says after some hesitation, quickly looking regretful— as if he’d just sold out his best friend to a killer. “Look, don’t take what I said to heart, okay? It’s not Pete’s fault if you—”

Patrick doesn’t hear the rest of that as he shoves past Chris, only refraining from pushing him into the street because of the dog attached to the leash.

The world’s a blur of houses and kids running to get out of his way as he storms down the sidewalk towards Pete’s house, not quite sprinting but not really taking his time either. He doesn’t know how long it takes before Pete’s house is in sight or if he’s thought anything rational other than a thousand ways to get away with murder but, by the time he’s at the door and slamming his fist against it like it’s Pete’s aggravating face, his lungs are burning and his mind keeps glitching back to the image of Pete calling anyone else his boyfriend. 

Wasn't this whole fake-dating thing Pete's idea? The more Patrick thinks of the situation-- the break-up, the humiliation, the way Pete used him to help his band-- the angrier he grows.

“Hey, what’s u—  _ Ow!” _

In the future, Patrick might admit that his last knock was unnecessarily harder than the others but, for now, he goes along with it, keeping his fists tight at his side, envelopes shoved into his back pocket.

“You fucking fuck!” He shouts, growing louder with each word. Seeing Pete, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers as if it could make the pain from Patrick’s punch disappear, has suddenly put all his words back in place. Perhaps not intelligently, but certainly enough that he feels confident in his screaming. “I hate you!” 

“What?” Pete has the audacity to look confused, maybe even offended. “Dude, calm down, alright. You wanna go for a walk and talk it out? Somewhere where, oh, I don’t know, my mom won’t call the cops about some asshole screaming on her porch?”

It’s the condescending tone that really sets Patrick off.

“Oh, fuck you, I’ll leave as soon as I tell you what a spineless dick you are,” he snaps, jabbing a finger into Pete’s chest, hard enough that Pete whines another  _ ow _ . “If you’re gonna break up with someone, at least have the balls to actually fucking do it to their face. Don’t send your stupid friends with some stupid information unless you want to wake up dead, motherfucker. What kind of plan was that, anyway? Breaking up with me without telling me? What the fuck?”

“What the fuck is right,” Pete says, grabbing Patrick’s wrist and tossing his hand to the side with no small amount of disgust. “Who said anything about a break-up?” 

“Do I really look that stupid?” Patrick asks, fully aware of how stupid he must look right now, bundled up in an oversized hoodie and a cap covering his unbrushed hair— not to mention the glowing red shade his cheeks must be, going off the burning heat he feels in them now. Approximately five feet of pure rage, tensed up like a bull about to charge. “Chris told me you were showing off this new fuck of yours at practice and if you thought for a second I wouldn’t hear about it then you’re an even bigger douche than everyone thought. And everyone thinks you’re a massive douche.”

“Woah, woah, is that what this is about?” Again, Pete’s refusal to look at all ashamed only makes Patrick more determined to kill him. “That wasn’t anything. Well, not anything important, anyway. He’s just a friend who likes to, well… We fuck around. You don’t need to worry about us, though, we can totally keep up appearances.”

Is Pete always such an ignorant idiot or does he just show off when Patrick’s around?

“That’s not the point,” Patrick says through gritted teeth, head ducked. “I’m just—”

“Then what is the point?” At Pete’s tone, Patrick looks up, words fading when he catches sight of the curiosity honed in on him, a shade of amusement Patrick hates to fall for— but one he falls for nonetheless.

What is the point?

Patrick licks his lips, struck dumb by his inability to answer that question without tripping into another mess. He knows what his gut reaction is, what he felt when he heard Chris’ gossip, but he’d be caught dead before admitting he was anywhere near  _ jealous _ . 

Not, of course, that he was ever jealous.

“It just… It made me look like an idiot,” he says after a long pause. It’s a half-truth in the form of a softer voice, no less angry but not the shouting tantrum he’d been throwing before. This time, his voice is a rubber band that’s been stretched out too wide, lost between closing in peacefully and snapping in half. “People already thought I was dumb for dating you and, like, I defended you from that shit. I chose you over my band at times and everyone who knows us knew it. And now I just seem like the stupid kid who got tricked.” 

Embarrassment is an ugly thing and it distorts Patrick’s words into something more pathetic than he wishes they were. He bites his lip before he can say anything else, gnawing on the skin until it’s as red and swollen as the bruise he’d left on Pete’s mouth.

After too long, after clouds have crossed the sun and left nothing but shadows beneath them, Pete speaks.

“I thought we were done,” he says, his voice as soft and as upset as Patrick’s. “Or, I mean, I thought that you were done with all of this— the fake relationship, hanging around my friends, hanging out with  _ me _ . I tried texting and calling but you didn’t respond and… I thought that meant you were done.”

_ And I thought I wouldn’t care if we were _ . Patrick chokes down his traitorous thoughts, turning his head and looking at anything but Pete’s eyes.

“Yeah, well,. Maybe I've just been busy,” he says uselessly. “Don’t jump to conclusions.” 

“Okay. Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Pete’s agreement saps the energy and anger from Patrick, leaving him feeling empty and foolish on his front porch. Now would be a good time to ask if they’re still faking or if they’re friends again or if Patrick should delete Pete’s number from his phone, the way he should have when this whole thing began.

Instead, he steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets, too afraid of what the answer might be— even more afraid of what he wants to hear in response.

“Glad we figured that out,” he says, shoulders slumped as he wonders how much time he’s wasted on this meaningless discussion. God, what was he thinking? Running over here like some clingy ex, fueling the jokes and taunts Pete’s band will no doubt have should they hear of this? He takes another step away from Pete, drawing his shoulders up to his ears as if to hide. “I should get going, then, or—”

Pete’s hand finds the back of his head, drifting down to his neck as he pulls Patrick in for a soft kiss. It’s warm and tender, as meaningless as the rest of the day has been, but somehow their lips meet and shift with a synchronicity Patrick only ever sees when he’s writing songs. Patrick’s still; he wishes he had the confidence to be pressing back, lost and searching for a way to make it last. Pete’s breath, Pete’s lips, Pete’s touch overwhelms Patrick’s brain and he shuts his eyes, leans forward and sighs when Pete trails his hand from the back of Patrick’s neck and to his jaw, cupping it softly.

“What?” Patrick asks, a mere breath of a word when Pete pulls back seconds later. His eyes flutter open, flustered but finding Pete before they’re fully focused. Pete— smiling softly, smiling fondly, smiling like it’s a secret they both share. “What was—” He cuts off, swallowing, certain Pete can hear the way his heart’s suddenly struggling to find a steady pace.

“Hey, chill,” Pete says, that blasted smile wrapped around the words like a bow on a present. He swipes his thumb across Patrick’s bottom lip, chuckling to himself as he does so. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

He’s stepping back and shutting the door before the warmth of his breath has left Patrick’s lips. He might have said something about meeting up later, about calling or texting, but Patrick can’t be bothered to remember as he turns and walks away, dazed and confused.

Pete might have told him to chill out, to keep from jumping to conclusions, but, as Patrick brings a shaking hand to his lips, he feels the warning may have come a bit too late.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Falling back into a dating routine with Pete is a bit like catching up on a missed step in marching band, Patrick decides. He didn’t realize how offbeat everything had felt until taking a good look around, noticing the odd stares from those around him, and skipping back into place. It feels a little like tripping over his own feet but it does bring with it some sense of satisfaction.

Unlike marching band, however, it also brings back the forays into Arma Angelus band practice. 

No one questions it when Pete starts bringing Patrick back over, one of the few things Patrick’s grateful for when it comes to the group. Only Chris bothers with an odd expression before shrugging it off and making some remark about his own lightswitch relationships. It’s less awkward than Patrick had expected.

And, more than that, it’s way more comfortable. He and Pete go back to joking and teasing without missing a beat, back and forth like lifelong friends. Well, lifelong friends who can hug and kiss and cuddle without it being weird and it’s…

It’s fine. If Patrick doesn’t think too much about any of it, it’s fine.

At least, it’s fine until Patrick lets himself into Pete’s house during Arma’s practice time only to realize that Pete isn’t around— gone to pick up some junk food from the nearby store, or so his bandmates say.

“Oh,” he says, stopping in the doorway and blinking at the group of older guys watching him. “I’ll catch up with Pete later, then. I should probably check in with my band anyway—”

“Nah, it’s cool.” That’s Adam’s voice, still slimy in Patrick’s ears even if he hasn’t outright insulted Patrick since Pete called him out on it. “Pete should be back soon and, besides, you know you think we’re cooler than those losers you hang with.”

Patrick bites his tongue, eyes narrowed. “Right.” He doesn’t bother pointing out that his band is the one who’s deemed him a loser for his relationship, all but shunning him at band practices until he’s nothing more than a couple of sticks beating on their drums for an hour or so. And he definitely doesn’t bother pointing out that Adam’s new lip piercing is off-center and thus makes him even more of a loser than Patrick and his band combined.

Well, he doesn’t point it out verbally. If Adam seems to think that Patrick’s innocent pinching of his own lip and raised eyebrow are some sort of insult then, well. That’s that.

Patrick makes his way over to the couch as Chris starts the band up on a discussion over their battle plan for the upcoming competition. It’s something Patrick would probably be interested in if he was a good friend to his band but those assholes have rejected him so he feels no need to take notes on the enemies strategy.

And it’s a sucky strategy, anyway.

Patrick busies himself with better music, yanking a tangled mess of earbuds free from his pocket in hopes of drowning out the current squabble between one bad song and an even worse song. If was a real boyfriend— or even a decent fake one— he’d tell them to give up and go with one of their other songs, preferably one of the shorter ones.

Somehow, Adam’s insistent glare keeps Patrick from giving any such advice. 

Patrick’s unaware of it for the first few minutes of untangling his earbuds, eyebrows furrowed and mind focused on not ruining the only pair of buds he’s gonna get for the rest of the year. But, over a handful of moments, his skin prickles with the feeling of being watched and he tenses, unwilling to look up and give in. Adam's had a target on his back ever since he first picked on Patrick and Patrick knows that picking another fight-- surrounded by Adam's friends, temporarily abandoned by Pete-- would be the beginning of a disaster he knows better than to deal with.

Really, though, his old-fashioned teenage folly is far greater than he gives it credit for.

“Okay, dude,” he says, tossing his earbuds down into his lap and interrupting a rather dull conversation about how to kick out one of the members who never shows up. Adam’s as invested in it as Patrick is, looking like he’d rather kick Patrick out of general existence than give his thoughts on the subject. “What the fuck did I do to you? You look like I ran over your grandmother or kicked your dog and, last I checked, you’re the one who wronged me. Wanna explain the sour face or should I assume you’ve got that resting bitch thing going on?”

Unsurprisingly, Adam’s glower darkens and his hands become fists in his lap. Patrick’s do the same and he even leans forward a bit, already imagining how he’d like to tear out Adam’s tacky piercing.

“Don’t play innocent.” His voice is as annoying as Patrick remembers, high and mighty and strained from trying to keep up with the screamers in hardcore bands. “Like I don’t know you’re just pretending to date Pete.”

Patrick freezes and the room seems to still around him. Already, his mind moves at an impossible speed, wondering how Adam knows or if he really does, if he's bluffing or lying or trying to stir up drama. He wonders if Pete told him or if they've been that obvious, if Pete shit talks him when he's not around or if he should even care that the gig is up.

Adam's lips quirk up in a disgusted smile, each glimmer of light on his yellowed teeth promising that Patrick's given him all the proof he needs by his reaction alone.  Patrick pales and he resents how heavy his breaths feel now,  how light-headed and dizzy he becomes when every thought is underlined by a chorus of  _ oh shit oh fuck oh SHIT _

“What the fuck?” He asks, words slow but only because his mouth has gone dry. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Adam pulls himself slowly off the ground, rolling his shoulders as if none of this means anything to him. Only the sharp glint of something taunting in his eyes gives away any sort of malice. “Yeah, it’s actually really fucking obvious. Did you think you were fooling anyone?”

Patrick’s on his feet because he can’t stand Adam leering over him like any of this is an insult or point to make. He’s across the room because everyone else has gone silent, holding their breaths to see what happens next, and Patrick might have a bit of stage fright but he’s still willing to make this a show.

“Aside from the fact that it's utter bullshit,” Patrick snaps, hating how he has to stretch his neck to properly get in Adam’s face-- just as much as he hates how his eyes won't focus, darting around the room with something he won't call panic or fear, “why would it be any of your business, anyway? And what the fuck would I have to gain from hanging around idiots like you?”

Okay. Inadvertently insulting the entire band in front of them isn’t really Patrick’s greatest idea ever. He realizes this a few seconds after spitting the cruel words out, when the atmosphere changes from casual hopes for a fight to bitter offense— the latter is proven by someone tossing their empty coke can at his shoulder.

Patrick ignores it, too focused on how satisfying it would be to tear off the stupid smirk currently stretching itself across Adam’s face. How dare this wannabe punk stand in front of Patrick and have the  _ audacity  _ to insinuate that his fake-relationship is meaningless? How dare he pick apart the one thing keeping both their bands in the running for this thing?

How dare he laugh to himself about whatever Patrick and Pete may be? How dare he pretend this makes Patrick any less than what he’s been ever since he and Pete started this lie, this trick, this charade?

How dare he?

“I mean, is this a conspiracy theory or do you actually have any proof?” Patrick asks, aiming for  _ defensive boyfriend  _ and landing on  _ asshole about to start a fight with someone much larger than him _ . 

“Aside from the fact that Wentz has pulled this shit before? Yeah, I can name a few things that make way more sense than him dating someone like you.” Adam says  _ you  _ like it’s an insult but there’s a certain twist in the way he says Pete’s name, too, something that has Patrick more on edge than he typically is. “Look, maybe he has a good idea behind it all. Maybe it’s a stupid prank or a game. Hell, maybe he just wanted a good excuse to fuck you. But I know your type, kid— the snobby music nerd who’ll do anything to get away from books and desk jobs. So you’ll pretend to date the guy in the other team to snatch a chance at, like, sabotage or spying and I’m not having it anymore. We’re not losing this fucking battle just because Wentz couldn’t see that you’re clearly using him.”

Patrick barks out a laugh— another terrible decision as the eyes around him narrow and glare, caught on the choked off sound of his words.

“Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?” Patrick asks, lips pulled back in a dirty sneer. “You’re not worth the time, asshole. And when my band beats yours, it’ll be because we’re  _ better _ , not because of any stupid trick— something I’m sure you couldn’t possibly imagine.”

Adam shoves Patrick before Patrick has the chance to realize they’ve escalated to any sort of physical confrontation, too distracted by the sudden rush of blood pounding through his ears and overwhelming any word that isn’t currently a curse repeating in his head.

“See,  _ that’s  _ what I mean!” Adam says, pointing as Patrick keeps from stumbling over, teeth gritted and face red. “That snobbiness is exactly why I know you’re not really dating him!”

“Or maybe he just wants to hang out with someone who actually gives a shit about their music,” Patrick snaps back, seconds from throwing himself at Adam’s throat. Maybe he’ll knock his teeth out, give him a reason to keep his mouth shut for once. “

“Or maybe he just wanted an easy fuck,” Adam says, to a chorus of  _ oohs  _ from their audience. “God knows Wentz knows shit all about music.”

Patrick’s cheeks flare with a heat he doesn’t understand, a sudden blaze of anger at something other than his own indignation. 

“Oh, fuck off!” He shouts. “You’re gonna bring your own fucking friend down for this shit? Are you even on a side or are you just spouting BS at this point?” Patrick’s words tremble in the air, flimsy attempts to sound more composed than he is.

He's going to kill Adam, he swears.

Adam scoffs— he actually has the fucking audacity to scoff and cross his arms, head tossed back like this shit’s already over. “Wentz isn’t my friend, asshole. He’s a guy with a big rep and nice practice spot and the second we get a real musician, I’ll be the first to vote him out. So maybe you didn’t pick the right guy to play groupie for, after all.”

“Shut up!” 

The words are punctuated by Patrick’s fist on Adam’s jaw, another one bruising Adam’s bony chest as Patrick floods over with rage and anger and absolute hatred. How dare he? How dare he? How dare he? It’s a cacophony of disbelief in his head, making itself known in screeching swears and bloody knuckles as Adam's new piercing rips free after another thoughtless hit from Patrick's fist.

Adam crashes to the ground, feet falling out from under him as if his ankles had snapped. For a second, Patrick imagines he hears the familiar sound of cracking bones but realizes it’s only his own teeth snapping together as he heaves for breath, glaring down at Adam’s sprawled out figure.

“Don’t you fucking dare talk like that around me,” Patrick growls. He’s seeing red and it's more than Adam's blood pouring from his lip; he's deafened by the buzzing of static in his ears and it's more than his own screaming voice. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Who the hell do you think you are?” He raises his foot, suddenly enamored by the idea of breaking Adam’s hand or wrist, maybe kicking his elbow and shattering that. See how he likes being struck from his band and music without a thought, show him how easily  _ he  _ could be replaced and how little anyone would care. He thinks he can vote Pete out of his own fucking band? Not if Patrick has something to say about it— Or, better yet, not if Patrick has something to  _ do  _ about it.

He’s prepared for the smashing of bones beneath his shoes— he never takes them off around these assholes, he needs all the height he can get— and that’s when he realizes how silent it’s become.

And he only notices the silence because it’s been broken by the sudden chaos of a band watching one of their mates— no matter how shitty— go down from an outsider’s punch.

The scuffling of band members rushing off furniture to try to get in on the fight, distant shouting that still can’t compete with Patrick’s own internal mess of noise, and the urge to do something— anything, probably starting with throwing more hits or running away— flood Patrick’s senses at once.

He locks up as someone grabs his shirt and shoves him up against the wall, his eyes on Adam’s even as he prepares to be beaten within an inch of his life. The pummeling isn’t anything everyone— including his own mother— hasn’t already expected to happen, given his own bad habits with fists and tempers. But Adam’s eyes… There’s something in them that Patrick hates even more than the boys threatening to kill him.

A door slams open; a door slams shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” 

The hands tugging at Patrick, bruising his arms and grabbing at his face, don’t disappear but they do loosen, enough that Patrick’s muscles relax and he can turn to face Pete.

Pete. Standing in the doorway of the living room, holding a bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips and staring at them all as if they’re trying to hide a body. 

“This little shit hit Adam!” Someone says, the person with their hand balled up in the collar of Patrick’s shirt. “He started a fight!” A chorus of agreement— the crowd cheers for Patrick to be taken down, taken out, shaking him as if it will prove their point.

Pete’s face is a shade of frazzled red beneath his tan, something Patrick only recognizes because it’s the same color that appears whenever Patrick jokes about their supposed relationship. It’s a lot less appealing, though, when the confusion is paired with Pete’s friends about to kill him.

Slowly, Pete sets the chips down and walks over, as stiff as if he’s the one emerging from a fight.

“Let him go,” he says. “Now.”

It’s not a voice Patrick’s ever heard him use before, tight and stretched and threatening. He almost sounds worried, fingers twitching at his side and his eyes burning with an unspoken dare. 

“But, Pete—”

“ _Now._ "

Adam had implied the band’s been using Pete but Patrick can’t believe such a thing when everyone listens to Pete’s command with little to no hesitation, flinching at his harsh tone and giving in with only the smallest amount of grumbling. Only Adam stays in his place on the ground, a hand at his chin and collecting the steady trickle of blood streaming from his lip. 

Pete pays him no mind, crossing the room to stand before Patrick, eyes wide as if everyone’s disappeared.

“You need to tell me what happened,” he says. His voice is low but everyone else is still crowding around, still listening in, still waiting for the permission to tear Patrick apart. “I need… I need to know how to fix this.”

Right. He needs to know how to keep Arma from lunging at Patterson’s throat again, how to make sure all their hard work hasn’t been flushed down the drain by Patrick’s poor temper.

Patrick drops his gaze to the ground, ready to swallow his pride and apologize for something as stupid as wanting to punch Adam. 

It’s an idea he entertains for maybe a second before he feels the sting in his knuckles again, a reminder of why he threw that punch in the first place.

“He was saying all this shit about you.” Patrick doesn’t know why his face is suddenly hotter than it’d been when he was certain he was going to be murdered. He doesn’t know why he’s shaking or why his voice is a whisper or why there’s a sharp sting behind his eyes. “He was being an asshole about you and if you’d only heard it, I swear… I couldn’t listen to it. I  _ had  _ to make it stop and—”

“Oh my god,” Adam says from his spot on the floor. When Patrick looks to him, Adam’s eyes are wide and there’s suddenly a name for the look he’d been giving Patrick before— disgusted understanding. “Oh my god, you actually  _ like  _ him.”

Patrick sucks in a harsh breath, stumbling back from Pete as if the words are a saw falling between them, a blade cutting Patrick free from whatever trance he’d been in. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes, staring at Adam. “Fuck you, you don’t know anything.”

“Patrick?” Pete asks, for once sounding innocent even as Patrick’s world is falling apart. “Patrick, what is he—”

“Fuck this.” Patrick forces himself to look at Pete but hates himself for that decision the second he sees those warm brown eyes, those pretty chapped lips he’s already kissed a dozen times. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” Pete grabs his arm before he’s taken a step, a reassuring pressure above his elbow to keep him from storming off like the drama queen he knows he can be. “I feel like… We should probably talk.” 

Pete’s eyes are still so soft, so sweet in their gentle confusion. It’s nothing like the cocky jerk he presented himself as for the first half of this relationship, the asshole with nothing to gain but a chance at winning some stupid battle. He blinks, his eyelashes pressing shadows into his skin.

Patrick’s stomach flips; his mouth goes dry and, for a second, he swears he feels his heart stop. The world feels tinted in the strange pink-orange haze of his own confusion and he almost forgets why it’d be a bad idea to put a name to these feelings.

Just like that, these stupid emotions are sent back to cower in the shadows of Patrick’s mind, shoved aside the way Patrick prefers them to be.

He doesn’t like Pete. He doesn’t and he won’t and he  _ can’t _ .

“I said I need to go,” he snaps. He shoves Pete aside, biting down the guilt he feels when Pete stumbles back into his couch.

It’s easier to leave when Pete’s looking at him with budding sparks of hurt anger in his eyes. It’s easier to leave when Adam’s still silent on the ground, no longer spitting out stupid accusations of who likes who.

It’s easier to leave when he can still convince himself that these emotions mean nothing.

So that’s exactly what Patrick does. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, I hope you liked that! I'll admit, there was some panic while I was editing because it looked like my document wanted to delete itself for a bit but here it is! I'll try to get to work on the next parts as soon as I can so let me know what you think so far! 
> 
> As always, feel free to comment or come hang out in my inbox/messages on tumblr: hum-my-name :)
> 
> Have a fantastic day/night!


	6. This Might Just Be A Waste Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But there's no one I'd rather waste my time with
> 
> ~
> 
> Also Known As: If Patrick's not running away from Pete, then he's ignoring him for the fiftieth time in one month (I promise we're going somewhere with this, Patrick's just too young and angsty to make that easy. And Pete's just too much of a problem)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, okay, I know. This is going to be reminiscent of another chapter bUT IT'S GOING SOMEWHERE OKAY JUST PUT UP WITH ME FOR A BIT LONGER I'M SORRY

Two weeks. 

Two weeks without Pete and his stupid friends and his stupid fucking ideas.

Two weeks with his own band, shouting at them to focus on the music for once— screaming at them to leave his love life alone, arguing until his voice is a horrid rasp.

Two weeks until the battle; two weeks until this can all be over and behind him. Two weeks until he owns a trophy shiny enough to show him a future where he doesn’t need to fake-date Pete.

Two weeks.

It feels like an eternity— both forward and back.

The band is getting better and he likes to think it’s his doing; ever since that day with Arma, Patrick’s been doing all he can to distract himself and that includes extending practice hours. Their singer is still a bit pitchy and they haven’t decided on a song yet but Patrick’s confident they’ll win. He’s certain of it. Every day, he’s smiling and laughing and smirking about how much fun it will be to win, how cool they’ll seem. Every day, he grows closer with his friends and feels ready to rule to the world.

So then why does he spend each night feeling so hollow? 

Lying on his back, staring at the dull grey darkness above him, Patrick’s eyes refuse to shut. Every time he tries to relax, his heart feels like it’s missing a beat and his brain helpfully supplies him with memories of someone else he’s missing.

Missing, of course, in terms of it not being present. Patrick doesn’t  _ miss  _ Pete, that would be insane.

He snaps these thoughts in his mind; loneliness roars back, loud and angry.

Louder than that, though, is the  _ ding  _ of his phone from the floor beside his bed.

Look. It could be anyone— so long as he’s ignoring the fact that it’s nearly three in the morning and he only knows one asshole with the same fucked up sleep schedule as him. It could be Joe asking if he left his extra guitar strings here; it could be his brother sending him a stupid picture of his college dorm.

Or it could be Pete. 

_ this conversation’s been dead on arrival _

_ a rivalry goes so deep between me and this loss of sleep _

A collection of one-line texts. Most of them are barely sentences, more like strings of poetry plucked from context and delivered to Patrick’s phone. Patrick watches them come in without moving, one after another— each one more confusing than the last. 

_ … this loss of sleep over you _

_ i know i’m not your favorite record _

_ flip me over _

Patrick hits the call icon before any more messages can come in, his heart twisting sharply as it’s dragged from its defensible shelter of silence and indifference. Now, with the ringing in his ear, he feels bare.

He becomes even more so when Pete answers with a tired, “Patrick?”

“Yeah.” Patrick pauses, licks his lips, and then continues. “What the hell are you sending me?”

He imagines Pete should laugh at this angered tone, the way he always would whenever Patrick overreacted— in Pete’s terms— over something small. Like when he teased Patrick relentlessly over his complaining about the air to chip ratio during one of their totally-planned and totally-fake movie nights, or when Patrick threw a fit— foot stomping and all— about the chore list instilled by his mother and Pete had laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Tonight, though, Pete’s silent but for the breaths ghosting gently against his phone’s speaker. 

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice is cautious as his exhales. “Thoughts, I guess. They’ve been building up in my head all week and I had to get them out before I ran out of space. That happens, sometimes, you know? I just let all these thoughts build up and then suddenly I can’t even speak unless I’ve written something down. I guess most people would call that a problem but I wouldn’t change it. Feels important. Like I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t do that.”

He sounds tired, the kind of tired where you can’t do anything but lay in bed and stare at your ceiling and think of everything you shouldn’t think.

Patrick swallows. In his mind, he sees Pete. He sees him hidden in shadows, his phone held in a white-knuckled grip. Palms sweating and fingers twitching, catching his breath with every second and trying to make it match the rhythm he hears echoing over the phone. Is he thinking of the same things Patrick’s thinking? Is he thinking of Patrick the same way Patrick’s thinking of him?

“Yeah, I get that,” Patrick says, eyes slipping shut because it’s easier to forget about rules and lies in the dark. “But you’re better than I am. I just scream and shout. Your words are… They’re good. You should put them in a song.”

“ _ You _ should put them in a song.”

Patrick laughs, his eyes still shut. If he doesn’t open them, he can pretend Pete’s in the room with him, maybe in the bed. And it’s late and Patrick can’t be blamed for stupid thoughts like this so, if Pete was here, he couldn’t be blamed for everything he’d want to do— everything he’d want Pete to do.

Adam’s words ring through Patrick’s head, an accusation and a curse.

_ Oh my god, you actually like him _

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut tighter and it has nothing to do with playing pretend.

“Hey, is your band still mad at me?” He asks. 

“No,” Pete says, sounding a little more awake than before. There’s some shuffling as he shifts positions and a tired groan that has Patrick biting his lip. “Adam and one of his friends quit the day after…  Well, they quit. Sucks, though, ‘cause his friend was our only good bassist.”

“That does suck,” Patrick says, something like guilt squirming in his gut. “Are you still gonna do the battle?”

“I was actually hoping you’d step in as the bassist. It’d be a pretty big step up from being a random asshole’s boyfriend,” Pete says, ending it with a breathy laugh that Patrick can’t return. He’s not used to this kind of candor, the teasing where Pete still seems to mean every word. It’s nothing like the faux flirting from before or the self-deprecating attitude everyone takes on every now and then. Patrick shakes his head though he knows Pete can’t see.

“Don’t you play bass?” He asks. “I’m sure you could take that role easily. With a bit of practice.”

“No amount of practice is gonna help,” Pete says. “You could probably perfect it faster than I could and I’ve been practicing for years.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself,” Patrick says, trying not to sound too invested in his insistence. “It makes me sad.”

“Oh, does it?” Pete asks. “What if I said that it makes me sad when you’re sad? Would that even it out?”

Patrick hates himself for how easily he smiles. “No, that’d be stealing my line.”

It’s easy to slip into a lighter conversation after that, something simple and benign. Pete tries to guess the color of Patrick’s pajamas— wrong, every time— and Patrick makes fun of Pete whenever he yawns. Hours pass, taking most of the night with them, and, still, the two find new jokes to share or stories to tell. No awkwardness or embarrassment or any handful of emotions Patrick’s been feeling ever since Pete forced his way into his life.

Well. There is one emotion that sticks out. One that makes him weak and dizzy, dries his mouth and sends his stomach spinning. He doesn’t name it but, like the stream of early morning light clashing against the darkness still lingering in the room, he knows it’s there.

So it pleases him when he hears Pete stumbling over his words when Patrick says something that might be a compliment. It brings him comfort when Pete’s voice grows smaller and he says something nice to Patrick, too.

Soon, though, orange sunrise beams in with an intensity that Patrick scowls at, turning to hide his face in his pillow and doing his best not to look at the clock. Pete’s in the middle of faking a drum solo on the other end— a lot of “booms” and “crashes” repeated— when he yawns, longer and louder than previous times.

“I know it’s morning,” Patrick says, voice muffled by his pillow, “but I’m going to suggest you get some sleep.”

Surprisingly, Pete doesn’t argue.

“Oh, shit,” he says. Patrick can almost see him sitting up in bed, noticing the sun for the first time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

Patrick twists his head to be sure his voice is clear.

“I don’t mind,” he says, smiling. “Get some sleep, though, okay?”

Pete hesitates, those near-silent breaths back again.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft. “You, too.”

When they hang up— Patrick counting down so neither have to worry about being the first to do so— he tosses his dying phone back to the floor and tucks himself back under the blankets. He tosses an arm over his eyes, trying his best to block out the sunlight.

It’s almost funny. Usually, he’d be more upset at losing sleep— especially if it’s someone else’s fault. God only knows the number of times he’s hit Joe or kicked him out of his room for talking senselessly throughout the night. Is Patrick’s fake relationship with Pete really that important?

No.

But only because nothing he did tonight was fake.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s quickly learning one very important detail about the universe. He can try to ignore Pete and his band and whatever else but he’s only allowed to do so on the universe’s terms. Eventually, he’ll be told to go back and the reminder is never subtle. It’s like a punch in the gut, a slap in the face, a sign held up that says “Hey, idiot, you miss him.”

And Patrick? He’s given up trying to ignore such signs. 

It starts with the late night phone calls and random texts, the bursts of lyrics and mystery that stir his guts into shapes undefined, but it always ends in the morning light. Sun filtering in through his cracked window, along with the breeze of some summer morning. Not quite day; not quite night. 

In those between moments of dark and light, nothing ever seems fake.

After, though, Patrick runs his fingers through his hair— matted from the static of hiding beneath pillows and blankets so his parents won’t hear him talking. He drags himself to the basement, too tired to fall asleep and still expect to wake before evening, and pulls his dad’s old guitar free from the corner.

Pete may not be the most well-spoken person and Patrick might suck at communication but he can do songs. 

_ Hope this is the last time…  _

He can do lyrics.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Now, it’s not that Patrick totally ignores Pete in the day and just happens to speak to him at night. He’s not some sort of nocturnal boyfriend, okay? It’s just… easier. Simpler.

It’s better to talk to Pete when Pete can’t see how red he makes Patrick’s cheeks or how often Patrick bites his lip to keep from smiling at something stupidly endearing Pete has said.

But just because it’s the better option doesn’t mean it’s the only option. Within a few days, Pete’s already inserted himself back into Patrick’s life. It’s not with the wrecking ball force he’d used before, the crash and bang of dumb ideas and youthful passion. Instead, he slips back into the midst of confusion and chaos with the gentle settling of dust after an implosion, tossed around but still finding somewhere to land.

It’s rather disconcerting that Patrick doesn’t realize it until after they’ve already met up a few times.

But it’s also different because, now, Pete’s band can’t stand Patrick and Patrick’s is still pretending the relationship doesn’t exist. So no more band rehearsal canoodling or somewhat public displays of affection. The two are confined to fake dates at the diner, alone and awkward, and Patrick has a hard time putting his finger on what’s so fake about it. There’s no way Pete’s sudden silences during conversations are planned or rehearsed; Patrick’s bouncing knees and jittery speech patterns were never part of a script. Still, the two blush and fumble their way around each other in a way they didn’t before. 

“Just nervous about the battle,” Pete says one day at Patrick’s house, fiddling around with the drum set and pointedly ignoring how each poke and prod makes Patrick’s eye twitch. “It’s soon, you know. Just a few days now and I’m freaking out.”

“Right.” Patrick is also freaking out but it has more to do with Pete’s presence than it does with the battle. “Yeah, of course. Have you guys picked a song?”

“More or less,” Pete says, turning back to face Patrick. “Have you?”

Patrick shrugs, looking away and kicking a spare drumstick beneath the couch. “The other guys did. I had some ideas but I know no one listens to the drummer.”

Pete makes an odd humming noise. “Sucks. What did you want to do?”

It’s an obvious question but Patrick still chokes on his breath when he hears it. 

“You’re not gonna take the idea and report back to your band, right?” He asks, staring at anything but Pete. Pete, though, makes aversion difficult when he plops down on the couch beside him, curling close to his side.

“Only if it’s good.” He’s teasing and giving Patrick a way out, a way to say that the song sucks so there’s no reason to play it. Patrick hates that he knows Pete so well; he hates that he doesn’t want to tell Pete no.

And he hates how his own words remind him of the song he chickened out of playing for his band when they asked for ideas. Because it’s not like he was ashamed or scared but he knew they would know what it’s about and Patrick didn’t want to share that. Not with them. 

“Yeah, fuck, okay. Fine.” He wriggles his way out from under Pete’s arm. The guitar’s back in the corner, meant to be left alone until the early hours where Patrick can pretend his stupid chords and words mean anything. Somehow, pressing his fingers to the strings feels wrong in the light of day; Pete’s watchful gaze evens it out. “I’m only playing it once, though.”

Pete stares at him like a kid discovering a surprise party, wide-eyed and stunned. “Wait, really? Awesome. Can’t wait to see what your band thinks they’re too good for.”

“Well…” Patrick tunes the guitar, shrugging and already regretting the decision. “Okay, well, I didn’t actually play it for them? I thought about it but… I don’t think it’s a song for them.”

At this, Pete’s face softens and his head tilts slightly, trying to figure out what Patrick means.

“Huh,” he says. “Okay. Interesting.”

“Yeah.” Patrick swallows, mouth suddenly dry. For someone so desperate to be a musician, he has the worst case of stage fright— even if there’s no stage and he’s more scared of this particular audience than any other he’s faced before. “If you fucking laugh, I’ll kill you.”

Pete grins but Patrick feels better with the threat in place. Nodding to himself, he strums out the opening and shuts his eyes before going into the words.

Pete’s words.

“Hope this is the last time ‘cause I’d never say no to you,” he sings, voice shaking but still managing to carefully sound out each word. “This conversation’s been dead on arrival…”

Patrick’s not a singer— or, at least, he’s never considered himself one— and it’s hard to pay attention to the words when Pete’s so silent. It shouldn’t scare him the way it does and it shouldn’t make him want to be better, to be prouder, to own the song as if Pete meant it when he gave the words to  _ him _ . He doesn’t want to sound so hushed when he reaches the chorus— he wishes he was anything but— yet he does; somehow, the lyrics and song still echo.

He makes the mistake of opening his eyes halfway through the song and, of course, they land on Pete’s. Pete, whose captivated gaze cascades over Patrick with each note, unreadable and impossible. He seems tense yet relaxed, melting into the music even as some part of him fights against it. Patrick sees the friction of  _ yes  _ and  _ no  _ in the cocky corners of Pete’s mouth, the deliberate blinks as Patrick slips into another pre-chorus, another clever twist of Pete’s pretty words.

When the song ends, it’s not with a clear stop. It drifts away with Patrick’s voice, a comfortable silence trading places with the sound, and the two boys stare openly at each other. Patrick’s mouth shuts, dry lips rubbing against each other; Pete’s mouth is still parted, agape, as if in shock.

“How did you do that?” Pete asks, at last, his voice nothing more than confusion. Patrick echoes it, wanting to look back down but finding the action impossible.

“Do what? Write the song? It was pretty easy, I mean, your words are really good for melodies. Or do you mean the singing? Like—”

“How did you make it all make sense?” Somehow, suddenly, Pete’s on his knees before Patrick, the two seated before each other like school children sharing secrets. And it’s fitting because Patrick feels so young, too young for the way Pete’s looking at him now.

“I—” His mouth is dry, his palms sweaty. “I didn’t think I did. It already made sense to me.”

Pete’s looking at him like he found his new favorite song, his eyes shining like he can’t wait to press repeat. He reaches out, hand pressed against Patrick’s, and he leans in even closer.

“Can you teach it to me?” He asks. “The song. I feel like- I think you’re the only person who can help me make sense.”

It sounds like Pete’s asking for something so much more profound than Patrick’s ready for. He’s not used to questions like this, these existential requests or ponderings, and he wonders crazily if this is what the real world is meant to be. Confusing boys and deep questions; fake versus real versus that place in-between that only they know exists. He tries to keep up but he feels so small. Lost.

But also found.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling every other meaning beneath it. “Yeah, of course.”

When Pete leans in, when they meet together with a sloppy kiss, every thought and fear Patrick’s ever had melts away. It’s gentle and sweet and intoxicating in the way Pete presses forward— closer, closer, closer still— like he wants more than just the sensation of Patrick. Like he’s trying to press into him, to burn against him, to become something that they could only create together. Patrick loses himself in the feeling, the warmth and promise of Pete’s lips on his. He doesn’t move but the guitar falls away, Pete’s hands pushing him back until Patrick’s propped up by his elbows, neck stretched to keep them from separating. He’s stuck but it doesn’t matter; he’s thrumming in time with a universe he can only see when he shuts his eyes and listens to Pete breathe. Affection bleeds into him like alcohol in a wound, burning and healing and fixing everything that was knocked out of place when Patrick realized he loved Pete— right after punching Pete’s bandmate in the face. It feels like that, a little. A rush of adrenaline and passion, a surge of physical desire and need. It’s the feeling that hits in the middle of a fight, when you’ve lost control and the world spins faster than before, a furious blur of emotion and heat.

It’s the most wonderful feeling Patrick’s ever had.

Pete pulls away too soon, just when Patrick’s beginning to forget his own name, but he doesn’t go far. He presses a hand— warm, soft, perfect— to Patrick’s cheek and stares at him with half-shut eyes.

It’s Patrick who speaks, whining as Pete stares down at him.

“I don’t want this to stop.” 

_ This  _ could be anything;  _ this  _ is everything.

Pete’s eyes widen before shutting again. He leans down, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s in a manner that feels too much like an apology.

“I don’t think that would work out the way you want it to,” he whispers, breaking Patrick’s heart with each word. “It’s one of those things where you need to be careful what you wish for.”

“Okay.” Patrick turns away, watching Pete from the corner of his eye. “Okay, let’s try this, then. What are you wishing for right now?”

Pete’s touch on him hardens, an answer without explanation, and he moves away. Though he’s the one leaning over Patrick, he suddenly seems so much smaller than before.

“I know how these things work,” he says. “Making fantasy into reality always seems like a good idea until you realize that it’s never quite how you imagined. I’d rather just enjoy this instead of waste it on something that might not work out anyway.”

“Waste.” Patrick spits out the word, pulling away until Pete’s no longer touching him. Everything is so much colder than before, an icy chill down his spine and veins. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid. _ “Right, okay. Good to know it’d be a fucking waste.”

“Patrick, don’t be stupid. I just mean—”

“Don’t. I get it.”

Pete’s looking at him now with some stupid mix of pity and hurt— like he has any right to feel either way. It’s the kind of look that has Patrick’s blood boiling, his vision red. It’s the kind of look that would have him throwing punches and aching for something to bleed.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Patrick uncurls his fist and pushes the urge away. 

Pete’s infuriating and impossible and terrible and wrong about everything he’s saying but, given the chance, Patrick would still rather kiss him than hit him.

He hates it more than anything.

“I should go,” Pete says, standing. “The battle’s soon, you know. I should be with my band.”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s tone is clipped, short, but he’s barely paying attention to what he’s saying. “You should be with them.”

Pete looks down at Patrick for a second longer. Patrick doesn’t see it, too busy staring at his traitorous hands and wondering why they won’t take this anger out on Pete, but he can feel it. Like a promise being torn away, he feels it.

And, like a promise that never existed to begin with, he feels it, too, when it leaves.

 


	7. Walk Myself Away From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where can I go when I want you around  
> But I can't stand to be around you  
> "Go home"  
> I'll walk myself to you  
> I'll walk myself away from here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of angery boys and tense bands! I am very excited for this part so let me know what you think! I've been so happy that people have been enjoying this and (tbh) I have loved writing this Trick so very much :) Show the ill-tempered boy some love!

“We need a new song.”

It’s the first thing Patrick hears when Joe marches in the next morning, huffing and complaining. Patrick’s barely awake— he’d waited up like a fool for another text from Pete, another call that never came— and the pillow he throws across the room lands pathetically at Joe’s feet. Joe ignores it, the way he usually does when Patrick throws stuff at him, and plops himself on Patrick’s bed.

“Wake up, man,” Joe presses, poking Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s an emergency.”

“Oh my god, I’m pretty sure the emergency is the fact that my mom just lets you up here without question,” Patrick grumbles, shoving his blankets to the side and sitting up with a groan. “I’m gonna get a fucking sign up sheet for visiting hours because this is getting ridiculous.”

“Shut up, I’m serious,” Joe says, looking very much like he’d like to push Patrick off the bed. “Wyatt said he can’t do the song we originally chose. It’s too hard on his voice or whatever so he’s called an emergency practice today so we can learn a new one.”

Like an electric shock down his spine, Joe’s words strike Patrick with enough force for him to forget any and all sleep interruptions. 

“Wait, he’s expecting for us all to learn some new song he just made up today?” He asks. Joe looks away guiltily and all of Patrick’s hair raises in suspicious alert. “Wait, wait, I know that fucking face. What did you do? Dude, what the fuck did you do?”

Joe lasts only a moment beneath Patrick’s glare, one of many to fall victim to the impossible weight of its anger.

“Okay, look. Wyatt can’t write music for shit and Terry wasn’t answering his phone so I might have told him you had a backup plan,” he spits out, Patrick scurrying to keep up with his rant. “I mean, you’re always writing stuff and you’re pretty smart with music so there has to be something worth using around here, right? The other guys suck as bandmates but they’re decent musicians and if you have something, we can probably learn it in time for the battle.”

“The battle is this week, Joseph,” Patrick snaps, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Maybe if he presses hard enough he’ll go blind and won’t have to look at Joe’s expectant gaze anymore. Alas, all it does is give him more than enough time to think about the logistics and problems and issues with Joe’s plan. Patrick’s got songs, sure, but none of them are worth sharing with a couple of guys who’ve made his life hell for the better part of the last few months. Like, don’t get him wrong, he  _ likes  _ the band and the opportunities to play in it. The people, though? Oh, Wyatt and Terry can go rot for all he cares. 

Joe, however, smiles at him kindly— like has any right to— and almost apologetically. “Look, man, I just trust your music more than theirs.”

And that? That’s not fucking fair. Does he really expect Patrick to fall for the pride and ego boost? Is Patrick really that easy?

The answer, of course, is yes.

“Alright, fine,” he spits out, tearing himself out of the bed and toward his desk. Scattered pieces of lyrics and melody ideas cover every sheet of paper but it’s not like they’ll be much use. He never learned how to read music so most of the sheets are more… descriptions of what they’re supposed to sound or feel like. Whatever. If Joe wants Patrick’s music, he can put up with Patrick’s unique style of writing. “There’s a song about, like, Chicago somewhere in here and I expect all of you to respect the—”

He stops, his hands hovering over the most recently written song.

_ Dead on Arrival _

He’s only played it in full a handful of times; he’s only played it for someone else once. It’s still a child in his mind, half-written and half-ready for the world, but something about this paper stops all his words with the careful placement of his heart in his throat. For once, it wasn’t something he wrote alone. 

“You good over there?” Joe asks. His indifference and disinterest sound out of place next to the thrumming of Patrick’s pulse suddenly roaring through his ears, the heat and shame and rejection back on Patrick’s cheeks like it never left. 

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says, his voice dragging through his throat like tires over gravel. It aches, god, it aches but nothing compares to the burning humiliation in his blood when he remembers playing this song for Pete.

“Alright.” Joe either doesn’t suspect a thing or he’s letting Patrick get away with his tough guy pretense. He wanders over to Patrick’s side, a presence invading the chaotic mess of his mind. “Oh, what you got there?”

“Nothing.” Patrick’s quick to say it, quick to press the paper to his chest because even after Pete ran off his first thought is to protect it. His first thought is that this stupid piece of paper might still mean something.

The second thought, a half heartbeat after the first, is that this stupid piece of paper means  _ nothing _ . Pete wanted to learn how to play it, wanted to hear his words the way Patrick said it, but he didn’t stick around long enough to follow through. Oh, he’s good at playing pretend and he’s great at sucking other characters into his charade but Patrick can’t afford to let that affect what he does best— write songs. Besides, it’s not like Pete would have any reason to care— right? Patrick’s fingers uncurl slowly, his arms lowering to bring the words— someone else’s words but words given to him all the same— back into sight.

“Nothing?” Joe asks. His questioning tone is the most accurate he’s sounded all day.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, spilling bitterness from deep in his throat. “Nothing.”

Joe looks back at him but Patrick barely feels the confusion. 

He’s too busy imagining the look on Pete’s face when they beat him with this song.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

One would hope that the organizers for an event as exciting as a Battle of the Bands would be wise enough to give bands plenty of time to get all their information in, maybe with a few helpful reminders along the way. However, these organizers suck at their jobs, Patrick has decided, and wait until the day before the battle to remind everyone that, oh yeah! Make sure you sign up for set times and turn in your songs before the day of the battle! Just more proof that everyone else is an absolute idiot and that Patrick’s the poor soul suffering through the consequences of their mistakes.

In other words, Patrick finds himself standing among the noxious fumes of unbathed band members flocking into the club booked for the event, wondering why on earth the sponsors of this damn thing would wait until the day before the battle to declare that set times were determined by a mandatory physical sign up sheet only available here.

He lingers by the doorway as Joe and the others head for the front, determined to sign up for the best set time possible. Patrick had suggested they just go with whatever’s left— fate and destiny and all that— but, apparently, going last is really important. Patrick would call it poor planning but he’s too tired to pick any fights. Maybe later. 

Another band of sweaty boys shoves past and Patrick does his best not to gag too loudly as they walk by. He turns, prepared to hide out in the parking lot, when he catches sight of an Arma Angelus shirt stretched across a terribly familiar chest.

“Pete.” Patrick’s sure Pete doesn’t hear the breathless tone as Arma Angelus shoves inside but he does stop, looking at Patrick like he’s been caught. 

“Patrick.” He’s louder but no more certain than Patrick. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Pete’s either a liar or he’s stupid and Patrick takes his time trying to decide which one. He doesn’t have the chance, though, to call Pete on either before Andy’s beside them, looking at Arma like he’s expecting them to start a fight.

“Hey,” he says, arms crossed. “Everything alright over here?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, pushing forward. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Andy’s mouth screws up as he considers the scene, eyes lingering on everyone’s faces as if trying to pinpoint guilt on anyone. Evidently finding nothing, he sighs and looks away.

“Adam, a former bandmate of yours, came to the judges the other day with claims that Patrick had acted out against the band.” He sighs again, looking back at them. “He had another witness with him. Is there anything I should know about?”

Patrick’s heart jumps into his throat, clogging all defenses and explanations. The memory of Adam’s lip splitting beneath his fist plays in vivid detail behind his eyes — and everyone else’s, he’s sure, given the way they all sorta scowl and look at him.

Thankfully, Pete steps in before anyone else can. An arm curls around Patrick’s shoulder and tugs him towards Pete’s side and, though it’s warm, Patrick leans into it.

“There was a fight but it didn’t have anything to do with the bands,” Pete says hurriedly, his grip tight on Patrick’s shoulder. “You said it yourself— Adam’s a  _ former  _ member.”

Andy’s eyes narrow and he looks around at the rest of the band, waiting for someone else to condemn Patrick. It’d be easy, Patrick thinks, for Arma to say something and have Patterson done with. The final nail in the coffin that has been this entire experience. Patrick knows he hasn’t made many friends with the rest of Pete’s band— or, well, he’s sure he hasn’t made friends with them at all— but he still hopes they find a way in their heart to forgive his unforgivable sass and sarcasm. 

As the silence drags out, Patrick tenses and waits for judgment to fall, a hammer on the head to knock some sense back into him.

Nothing comes, not even a hint of snitching.

“Well, alright, then,” Andy says, sounding as surprised as Patrick feels. His gaze shifts from Pete to the possessive hand curled around Patrick’s shoulder and he raises an eyebrow, something clearly clicking in his head. “But if there is trouble, let me know.”

“Yep,” Pete says, popping the P. Andy waits a moment longer, watching the rest as if giving them another chance to throw Patrick under the bus before slipping back into the crowd and shouting for another group’s bickering to die down. 

Patrick relaxes. Pete’s arm leaves. Patrick tenses right back up again.

“Come on, I think I see your guys up there,” Pete says. He only meets Patrick’s eyes for a second, a moment between one breath and the next. It feels like a secret, the way their gazes slide across each other’s for a mere heartbeat, and Patrick wonders if Pete feels it, too. He wonders if the licked lips and nervous eyes are for him, just him. “If we pretend we’re with you, Arma won’t have to wait in line.”

_ If we pretend _ — all the worst ideas seem to start with that. Still, Patrick rolls his eyes and nods. Anything to keep Pete close enough to hit or kiss.

“Joe,” he calls out as they turn, elbowing his way to the front. He’s obvious and obnoxious, overacting so those remaining in line can tell that he’s not cutting, not really, he’s just catching up with a friend. Usually, he’s small enough that he can get by without too many dirty glares but having Arma Angelus following him makes it a bit more difficult. “Joe, man, wait up!”

“Huh?” Joe asks once Patrick and his makeshift entourage end up at the front desk. Well, the front table. Well… the front folding-table that was probably snatched from someone’s garage sale on the way here. “I thought you were hanging out by the door.”

“I was,” Patrick says, not bothering to elaborate. Look, where he hangs out doesn’t really matter much to him and it shouldn’t matter to Joe so he just shrugs and carries on with the conversation while Pete and his band hurry to sign up for a time and hand over their song copy. “You get everything in?”

“Yeah,” Joe says with a shrug of his own. “Now we just gotta hope that song of yours is as good as you say, considering we can’t really back out now with the judges looking it over. By the way, where did you—”

“The fuck do you mean we can’t enter that song?” Someone from Arma shouts, anger coating their words like spikes on punk jackets. “There were never any rules about song decisions.”

“No, but we thought it would be clear it had to be an original,” the man at the table says when Patrick looks over, some cool-headed guy probably suckered into volunteering by a younger cousin or brother. He looks over at the same time Patrick does, saying his words like blows. “Patterson already entered a song just like this.”

Oh. Okay. Patrick… Yeah, he kinda skips straight to the freaking out part. 

Despite every event leading up to this moment, he doesn’t consider himself stupid. Sure, everyone else is an absolute moron and idiot and asshole and should consider themselves lucky he puts up with them. Oh, and Patrick, by the way? Way more clever by compare. 

However— and this " _ however" _ will haunt him for years to come— he reconsiders that maybe submitting a song he wrote with someone else’s lyrics wasn’t the smartest idea. Maybe.

First, everyone looks at Pete and Patrick thinks he could make an escape, could sink into the unknowing crowd of kids around them and run into the parking lot before anyone connects the dots. But he stays in place, watching frozen and slack-jawed as Pete goes red with both anger and realization.

“Don’t fucking look at me,” he snaps at his band, arms gesturing wildly enough Patrick fears someone will get hit and then where would they be? “The only person I shared that shit with was  _ him _ .”

And then Pete points. And then everyone looks at Patrick.

Pete’s eyes are the worst, betrayed and asking to be wrong. It’s not a look Patrick’s seen on him before, not even when he’d pushed himself away from Patrick or when he’d reminded them both that this relationship is fake. It’s not a look Patrick  _ wants  _ to see on Pete, not if he’s the cause. 

Joe— stupid, loyal,  _ stupid _ Joe— steps in before Patrick can defend himself, snatching Arma’s song off the table before them. The line grows restless as Joe takes his time reading it over, Patrick feeling sick with each bit of confusion showing itself on Joe’s face. He wonders, somewhere in a hysterical part of his mind, who will hit him first.

“What the fuck?” Joe asks, eyes darting from Pete to Patrick as if he doesn’t know who to be mad at. “Dude, it’s  _ Dead on Arrival _ . You said  _ you _ wrote it.”

“I- I did write it, though.” And Patrick’s not lying, not really, even if guilt tugs at his guts and embarrassment plants itself deep in the rose-red shades of his cheeks. Pete keeps watching and all Patrick can think about are the texts that came his way late at night, the way they meant nothing when he and Pete were actually together. All he can think about is that Pete had his chance to make it  _ their  _ song, to make it more than haphazard words and reckless thoughts. He had a chance and he threw it away like the asshole Patrick was always warned he would be. Patrick’s hands shake and he stares right back, voice growing louder with each word. “I mean, I’m the one who gave up entire nights of sleep in order to create melodies and notes and everything else. I’m the one who put it all together. I’m the one who made it make sense, right? It’s  _ mine _ — I wrote the parts that make it a song.” He pants for breath, face hot. It’s only when he sees the sparks of fury in Pete’s eyes that he realizes he’s been storming forward. 

“And I wrote the words,” Pete says, his voice low but dangerous. “I wrote the parts that  _ mattered _ . You were going to steal that? Really?”

Patrick swallows though his mouth is dry, every bit of him trembling and aching for something fair to happen for once. Because if life was fair, they wouldn’t be arguing about a stupid song. If life was fair, he wouldn’t be faking his relationship with the one person’s who’s given him a passion other than rage or music. If life was fair, Pete would understand that Patrick wasn’t really stealing anything— Pete gave him those words and Patrick can’t be blamed if he wants to hold onto them for a little bit longer.

“It’s not like you were ever going to give me anything else,” Patrick says. It’s nothing more than a statement but Pete recoils like there’s space for the words to echo.

“Fuck you,” Pete snaps, pain hitting his eyes between one blink and the next and all Patrick can think is  _ I did that I did that I—   _ Pete shoves him hard and Patrick falls into the action, stumbling back until he hits Wyatt’s chest. _ “ _ You stole our fucking song.”

“It wouldn’t even be a song without me!” Patrick cries out. He hates that he doesn’t want to fight right now, that he’d rather do anything other than give in to the way Pete’s fists are curled or how Joe’s eyeing up the other band like this is going to be a repeat of the first time they met. He hates that he can’t explain himself right, that he can’t say that those words wouldn’t exist without him— something Pete’s made very clear. He wants to scream for Pete to admit it or to go back before this entire mess happened. He just wants to be a kid in a shitty band; he never wanted this.

But what Patrick wants doesn’t matter. The universe has been very clear about that.

Pete steps forward and grabs the front of Patrick’s shirt like he expects a fight to come along with it. And Patrick feels the familiar coil of kicking rage beneath his skin, the curious twitch of anger when his feet skid uselessly across the floor. 

Still, he gives Pete a chance to speak, to change all this. Maybe they’ll talk it out— they’re supposed to be dating, right? Maybe this is all part of some plan Patrick was conned into seeing through.

“I told you he’d be a thief!” 

“Patrick, did you show him the music?”

“Adam was fucking right!”

“Wait, so Arma actually stole the song?”

“Just like Pete Wentz to date someone for some damn music.”

“Just like some kid to try to cheat.”

Bursts of fury explode around them in the form of betrayed bandmates and curious onlookers, people who know their names and infamy but little else. Patrick’s still inches from Pete, staring up into the sharp shards of golden light in his eyes, burning like a match as it falls across his face.

Slowly, Patrick wraps his hands around Pete’s wrist, incapable of doing anything else. Pete’s eyes flicker, a song in the wind, but then he’s tossing Patrick back towards his band.

“I should have never trusted you.”

Patrick fumbles for footing but Pete’s words and tone have left him unbalanced, falling to his ass on the floor with an embarrassing yelp. He catches himself with his hands before falling back entirely but Pete’s still standing over him, still looking at Patrick like he stole something worse than a few words.

For a moment, it’s just the two of them. For a moment, it’s just Patrick’s stunned pain at being tossed away and Pete’s disgusted eyes.

For all their supposed rivalry, Patrick realizes he’s never seen Pete look at him quite like that.

In the space between shouting— in the moments before their bands inevitably crash— Patrick raises his chin and looks back at Pete with as much loathing as he can muster. 

He still feels so much like a fucking child.

“I hate you,” he says in a trembling tone. It’s harsh and it’s spat out, venom and vile and everything horrible in his voice. But he means it, god, he means it. At this moment, with Pete looking at him like a goddamned stranger, he means every word. “I  _ hate  _ you.”

Abracadabra; Alakazam.

Patrick’s declaration is all it takes for the bands to collide against each other like the sea being pulled back up to the sand.

There’s cursing and there’s shouting and Patrick loses Pete before it’s really fully begun. Again, Patrick feels the tug of anger chanting for him to join the fray with fists and teeth, to give into the childish side that started this whole broken thing to begin with. 

But something greater keeps him on the floor, head ducked to avoid knees and feet. A gravity like none other pulls at every inch of him, weighing him down with all the guilt he knows he deserves. Someone steps on his hand, pressed flat against the ground; someone hits his hat off his head but no one touches him more than that. He stares at his knees and the chaos around him dulls as he tries to remember what went wrong.

“Hey. Hey!” 

Andy’s voice comes like thunder, breaking through the storm of boys hitting and scratching and biting like animals. It comes like judgment; it comes like the punishment soon to follow.

It takes longer than it should for anyone to listen and Andy calls over other organizers to help break the bands apart, snapping at them to stop and listen. Patrick glances up when Andy walks by, catching his disappointed confusion for just a moment before he’s shouting for peace again. Patrick doesn’t linger on that expression, however; he’s more caught up on the gloomy figure following him.

Pete, hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders pulled up this ears, shuffles behind Andy with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I want all of you out of the club now!” Andy shouts once Arma and Patterson have been torn from each other, the other bands pressed against the walls as if to emphasize their innocence. “All of you out. And I better not see any of your faces here tomorrow, either.”

The implication washes over the bands like a virus. Patrick feels physically sick, looking around for help. He realizes too late that, really, he’s just looking for Pete.

Pete, of course, doesn’t disappoint.

“Come on,” he says like he wasn’t the one who told Andy about the fight in the first place. “I know it was stupid but we’re less than twenty-four hours out from the battle and it wouldn’t be fair to—”

“It wouldn’t be fair to let you get away with breaking the rules,” Andy says, cutting him off. “You knew the consequences of fucking with other bands and you guys couldn’t last one more day.”

“But—”

“Out, Pete. You’re my friend and I’m sorry but I can’t let you off the hook this time.”

Patrick can almost feel Pete’s heavy breaths from here, the huffing of someone who’s trying to keep playing the role of the leader. Arma looks at Pete the way Patrick is, lost and waiting for guidance. Pete’s practically magic, a charismatic asshole who can get anything he wants just by putting the right words together.

But the last time he shared his words, they were stolen. Of this, Patrick’s painfully aware.

Everyone’s watching and, with a jerky turn of his head, Pete looks at Patrick like he has nothing left to lose. His eyes are wide and wild but Patrick sinks into them all the same.

“You hear that, Trick?” He asks loudly. The sarcasm wavers but he lays it on thick, overacting each word like he needs everyone in the room to hear it. “We’re disqualified.”

Slowly, Patrick nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Pete’s chest heaves as he breathes— in and out and in and out.

“Good,” he says, dropping the emotion but not the volume, everyone hanging onto every word because he’s Pete Wentz and everyone knows his name— everyone will be telling this story tomorrow. “So I guess you also know that you and I are through.”

Pete crosses the room and leaves without another word. One by one, the other kicked out band members— Patterson and Arma alike— follow him.

Patrick stays on the ground. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

Around him, people mutter and whisper and gossip about a break-up that was never real, a relationship that never mattered.

And Patrick’s heart, as stupid as anyone, goes along with the same foolish belief that it should be breaking.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

He doesn’t know or care how much time passes. All he knows is that he’s still hurting and the best place to hide is in a little deserted room in the club. It’s a back lounge behind the main stage area where, tomorrow, excited bands will file in with hopes and dreams and everything that Patrick’s lost today. So it only seems fair that he gets to spend a few moments in the makeshift green room, the place where he could so easily see himself warming up or joking around with Joe. Maybe Pete would have snuck in, amidst the protests of Patterson and Arma, and maybe they would have wished each other luck. Maybe they’d milk the fake-dating for just a little bit longer.

Maybe they would have never stopped.

Patrick sighs and lets his head fall forward, hitting his knees from where they’re pulled up to his chest. He feels a bit bad about how his shoes are pressing dirt stains into the couch but, really, that’s the least of his worries, right now. The room itself is dirty, anyway. It smells of dust and emptiness, the lights too dull for a room with no windows. Despite all Patrick’s imaginings, there’s really nothing amazing about it.

Still. It hurts to know he’ll have no reason to return once he finally finds the will to pick himself up and walks out. 

Andy finds him before any such will appears, though, hesitating in the doorway with an uncomfortable expression on his face. Patrick glances up at him for just a second, heart jumping and falling with the realization that he was hoping for someone else.

“Go away,” he mutters into his knees, turning his head once again. 

“Technically, I should be telling you that,” Andy says, walking over. He perches on the edge of the couch, far enough that it isn’t awkward but still close enough for Patrick to grunt his disapproval.

“What are you gonna do if I don’t? Disqualify me?” Patrick asks bitterly, the words like bile on his tongue. Everyone else has already left, Patterson pinning him as the traitor who shared the song with Pete, and the last thing Patrick wants is to go back home— back to where he’s always been told there’s no logical way to make it with music, no possible way to break from the cycle of school and college and work. “Just give me a fucking moment. My life kinda sucks right now.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Andy says, perhaps with less sympathy than Patrick was expecting. He waits for a beat, breathing steadily with all the privilege of being the one person not caught up in Pete and Patrick’s mess. “If it’s any consolation, I knew you two were faking it. So that’s one less thing you can feel guilty about.”

Patrick wasn’t remotely concerned about lying to judges or organizers about his love life but he looks up anyway, eyes squinted at Andy as if he can read the secret to figuring Pete out. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Andy says with a small laugh. “You aren’t the first kid he’s tried that stuff with.”

Just like that, Patrick buries his head back in his arms and knees, burning with shame. Of course he wasn’t the first, Pete said as much, didn’t he? Who the fuck did Patrick think he was? Special? What a load of bullshit that daydream was; if anything, he was just another sucker for Pete to use, another loser tugged along on the string of fake dates and make-believe love. At the thought, he feels sicker than before, his entire chest and stomach hollowing like a giant black hole.

“Gee, thanks,” he snaps. “I really appreciate—”

“ _ But _ ,” Andy cuts him off, continuing without hesitation, “I do think you were the first he actually fell for.”

Patrick’s hands curl around his knees, tightening and fulfilling every cliche as he catches his breath and runs the words through his head again. Just like the first time Andy spoke them, they catch on snags of impossibilities and hopelessness, broken spirits and wounds of shame. Patrick bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, turning to look at Andy through pain-dulled eyes.

“Don’t fucking fuck with me,” he says, sounding both tired and infuriated at once. “It’s not funny, okay, and I—”

“I wouldn’t.” Andy sounds just as certain as before but he repeats himself, softer, and looks at Patrick with steady eyes. “I wouldn’t.”

Patrick’s cheek fits between his teeth again, held in place so he doesn’t say anything stupid or childish. Not that it really matters; he still feels so stupid. So childish.

_ Really?  _ He wants to ask like a little kid promised a pony for their birthday.  _ Really really? _

Andy sees right through the tough pretense, the white knuckles and prideful gaze. His eyes scan Patrick up and down, reading something in his body language and laughing lightly to himself.

“He looks at you differently,” Andy says, looking up at the ceiling as he fashions his thoughts into something Patrick might understand if he tries hard enough. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that— real or fake or whatever. He likes you and you obviously like him. And the thing is, I should be telling you to run off. I know Pete and he’s an asshole and he’s jealous and he can be a downright dick if the mood strikes him. But.” He pauses, rubbing his chin, and Patrick nearly tips over from how close he’s leaning toward Andy, captivated by his words. Andy looks back at him, flicking his gaze to Patrick’s knuckles— unmarked for once. His voice holds the memory of the fight that started this all. “I can’t help but wonder if you’re not exactly the same way. Maybe that’ll even it out.”

There’s probably an insult tied up in there somewhere, something about Patrick’s temper and bad behavior, but it’s lost in the claim that Pete could like someone like him— that Pete could see him as more than the kid he used to keep his band intact.

Patrick’s voice is the battlefield for hope and defeat. “Or maybe we’ll just explode.”

“Oh, come on. That already happened today, didn’t it? What else do you have to lose?” Andy stands as if knowing Patrick doesn’t have an answer; he looks down and smiles as if knows what’s coming next. “He’s in the parking lot, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

The spark that fills Patrick at the realization that Pete’s still around— close, waiting, in reach— burns in his gut and takes him over from the inside out, leaving goosebumps down his arms and a layer of sweat on his neck. Andy leaves before Patrick can say anything else, shaking his head and laughing as he goes.

Slowly, Patrick pulls himself to his feet. Even more cautiously, he walks toward the door. 

A few more bands linger in the main area of the building, some witnesses to the earlier fiasco and the rest still catching up on the local scene gossip. They all turn and look at Patrick as he passes, asking to be sure that’s really the kid Pete Wentz dumped, if it’s that one from that one who stole that one song.

Patrick ignores them. He barely even sees them. He only sees the door up ahead, the shallow light pooled on the sidewalk behind it when it swings open and shut. He sees shaking lines in his vision and the distortion of nerves as he grows closer and closer and closer. He sees his hand on the handle; he sees fear and desperation. 

He sees Pete. 

He’s sitting on the curb with his back to the club, looking like he should be anywhere but here. Somewhere greater, somewhere more meaningful, somewhere meant for someone as dramatic and larger-than-life as him.

But he’s not there— wherever that is. He’s here, in Patrick’s world and vision. And Patrick doesn’t think he’s ready for that to change.

Behind him, the club doors swing shut. Pete stiffens at the sound but Patrick hesitates, standing in place as Pete slowly eases his defenses.

And then, Patrick breaks: “I’m sorry.”

He shakes as he speaks, frozen but for his voice. Pete grows tense again, refusing to look back— refusing to respond. Patrick doesn’t know what he’ll do if Pete doesn’t answer him so he just keeps talking, distracting himself from the neverending silence encircling them.

“I shouldn’t have used your lyrics. I shouldn’t have pretended like they didn’t mean anything.” With each word, he finds himself stepping closer. It’s not by his own will or conscious choice; simply, the universe tugs him back towards Pete’s presence. “I shouldn’t have given them away so easily.”

It’s not until Patrick’s inches from him, his shadow pressed against Pete’s back and shoulders, that Pete speaks.

“Those words were for you.” His voice is wrecked and hushed, torn up and ragged. It embeds itself in Patrick’s chest like a blade. “Just you.”

Patrick spends a moment looking down at Pete, the dark hair and tanned skin and slumped curve of his spine. He spends a second considering, hesitating, waiting for something brilliant to appear. 

But the truth isn’t always brilliant and Patrick never claimed to be smart enough to fix this. He takes a seat beside Pete, shaking as he lowers himself to the sun-warmed pavement, and sighs like he isn’t terrified on the inside.

“I know,” he says, more honesty in this than anything else in his life. God, he knew from the second he read the first line and heard music in his head. He knew Pete was writing for him; he just couldn’t accept that Pete wouldn’t admit it when it mattered. “But I wasn’t thinking about who they were for or what they meant when I gave it to the band. I couldn't stand to think of how it made me feel so I thought— You know, actually, I don’t really think I was doing much thinking, at all.”

Pete scoffs, choking on his own breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Neither of us will get to play the song.”

And that’s the part that sticks out. Patrick knows why  _ he _ gave it away, why he was ready to ignore the value of the words and melody in exchange for a sense of ownership. He knows his own intentions; he doesn’t know Pete’s.

A month ago, a week ago, a  _ day  _ ago and Patrick would have demanded the explanation. He’d be the red-hot anger that’s protected him his whole life, the fury and temper of a kid wrapped up and trapped inside the wants of someone trying to grow up. He’d be on his feet and screaming, insulting and shouting at Pete until someone gave in with a lie or excuse. He’d be furious.

But Patrick doesn’t want to be that stupid little kid anymore. He doesn’t want to give Pete any reason to leave.

He just wants…

“I like you,” he says, staring ahead so he doesn’t have to see Pete’s reaction. Patrick pretty much said the same thing before but this feels different. More obvious, more meaningful, more necessary. “I like you so much.”

Maybe it’s what a little kid would say but Pete’s just as juvenile, pouting with his lower lip out as he scuffs the toe of his shoes against the street.

“Aren’t you just looking for more words to take?” Pete asks. It’s melodramatic enough that Patrick allows himself to smile, the weight of his confession of his chest. Pete hasn’t said no; he hasn’t run off.

“Well, you stole the melody so I think it’s even.” Patrick glances at Pete from the corner of his eye, biting on his lip to keep from smiling at the pale pink tones buried in Pete’s cheeks. It seems he can blush if given the chance.

There’s a certain kind of comfort in the way Pete scowls like he’d been caught but it fades the second he shoves away from the curb, storming off for just a few feet before turning to glare at Patrick.

“You know it was all fake, right?” He asks with arms tossed to the side as if he knows how much the words make Patrick want to hit him. “It was supposed to be fake so we could keep our stupid bands together and we couldn’t even do that. All it did was make everything worse.”

Patrick struggles to keep his eyes from dropping to his hands, from panicking and running away the way he wants to. When he speaks, his voice is soft but Pete still manages to hear it; he always does.

“What if making it real makes everything better?”

Again, Pete looks off with stiff movements, tense and avoiding Patrick’s eyes. Patrick keeps watching, keeps waiting, his heart a bullet loaded in the barrel of his throat. 

“That’s assuming that both of us would want it to be real. And I’ve already made my point about that,” Pete says, firing weapons of his own. They land in Patrick’s chest alongside the debris and shrapnel of their last argument but, more than pain, Patrick just feels frustration. His fingers curl around the edge of the sidewalk, grounding him to the reality and truth he’s been running away from since the start.

“Why can’t you just admit that you like me?” He asks, face red but words sure. “You want this to be real, just fucking say it!”

“You don’t know that,” Pete says. It’s a blatant lie.

“I do.” 

For once, the rhythms of Patrick’s pulse and thoughts are pleasant and unchanging. He stands, too, on steadier legs than he’d expected and steps closer to Pete.

Pete doesn’t step away.

“I know because of those lyrics and how you said they’re only for me,” Patrick continues, walking toward Pete, Pete still and watching Patrick with an unreadable expression. No, Patrick decides, not unreadable, just impossible. “I know because you’re still talking to me and because you waited, knowing I’d come out. I know because you asked me to be your fake date but never really pretended. I know because you’re hurt by something stupid I did.” Patrick pauses, mere inches from Pete. “And I know because of the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Pete’s eyes widen and he turns his head, the past expression fading into a mask of something indifferent, something guilty. But Patrick doesn’t care that the softness has gone from Pete’s eyes or that the awe of his twisted lips is dulled by a frown. He saw what he needed to see; he saw what it means to have someone look at him like they never want to look away. 

Is this how he looks when he gazes upon Pete, he wonders? It’s certainly how he feels.

“Say you like me,” Patrick asks, demands. “You already know I won’t say no.”

“I don’t have to,” Pete says, looking back over. A glimmer of want sparks in his eyes but it’s gone when he blinks. Patrick refuses to let it disappear entirely, leaning forward until he’s in Pete’s space.

“What are you so afraid of?” He asks, lighting up with something stronger than frustration bursting beneath his skin. But not like a fuse, no; more like a firework. “Why can’t you just—”

“Patrick, stop—”

“— give up this stupid tough guy charade for once? Really, you would think—”

“ Patrick,  _ please _ —”

“—it wouldn’t be that hard. I already said that I like you. I already confessed and—”

“I’m not kidding, I don’t want to talk about this, I—”

“What do you have to lose?”

“Shut up!”

Pete’s hands curl around the side of Patrick’s head, slipping into his hair and pulling him close. They’re breaths apart now, the fabric of their shirts brushing together as Pete stares at Patrick— as Patrick stares right back, cut off and wide-eyed and waiting for someone to make a move.

Eyes dancing with confliction and then conviction, Pete breaks the stillness first.

The second Patrick feels Pete’s lips on his own, he gives into every emotion fighting for control in his chest. Want and need and desperation at war like meteors and planets, crashing into his heart and being as Pete pulls him closer, holds him tighter. For a moment, Patrick forgets all about battles and bands.  _ This  _ is victory;  _ this  _ is worth fighting for.  _ This _ is the only song he ever wants to write.

But, like always, it’s over too soon. Patrick lifts to wrap his arms around Pete’s neck and, at the slightest touch, Pete pulls away. He’s still close enough, though, that Patrick can feel his heat; he’s close enough for Patrick to smell the mint-gum coolness of his breath.

He’s close enough for Patrick to see the regrets forming like constellations in his eyes.

“Don’t,” Patrick says before Pete can ruin this. “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want that to be real.”

Pete’s eyes shut and he moves away, taking all warmth and promise with him. 

“It never works out,” he says, sounding strained. “It won’t work out and that’s not how I want to lose you.”

Patrick could fight this forever and, for a moment, he’s nearly tempted to. But then he remembers the depth of Pete’s lyrics, the self-deprecation in his jokes. He remembers the insecurities he’d whisper over the phone late at night.

If the universe is trying to teach him more understanding and less fighting, he feels he might finally be learning.

“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping back. Pete’s eyes open, slivers of hurt when he sees Patrick moving away. Patrick wants nothing more than to move forward, to pull Pete closer and never let go, but he knows that now isn’t the time for that. Swallowing thickly, he puts all his chances on the hope that such a time can still be found. “Well, if you want, you should come by my place tomorrow. I’ll be writing music and forgetting about the battle. I’d like it you came by.” He looks up, smiles. Pete almost returns it. “Can’t have a song without words, after all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha, awww, I've been so excited about the song-stealing fiasco since the beginning-- is that bad? I don't know but, well, it's true.
> 
> Anyway, please let me know what you think! I truly adore everyone who comments and I 100% recognize people who do so, trust me, I smile and feel all warm and happy whenever I see feedback from you-- Yes, YOU!!! Also, as I'm sure you have noticed, the next chapter will be the last one so, please, feel free to share your predictions for the ending; I love to know what people hope/expect/dread for the end, haha! 
> 
> Until next time!!! Have the most fantastic days/nights!!


	8. The Last Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really the last song but it's a fitting chapter title, isn't it? I swear, looking for lyrics to put as the title has left me giggling over Patrick's young voice in Evening Out. It absolutely warms my heart. 
> 
> Anyway... Last chapter! I hope it has all the closure and fun it needs, haha. Thank you so much for sticking around for this fic and thank you so much to anyone who's commented or left a kudos or saved it as a bookmark. You all make me smile.
> 
> Special shoutout to Soiburieditalive btw! They made some lovely fan art for this fic and I'm just so in love with the fact that anyone would do that. I'll leave the link below and expect all of you to go check it out and show it some love because, seriously, that's the sweetest thing.
> 
> Now, I suppose, onto the fic! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Art Link: https://soiburieditalive.tumblr.com/post/181719443252/a-little-random-piece-that-i-drew-for-hum-my-name#notes

Patrick’s heart pounds in time with the constant ringing of the phone pressed to his ear, his palms just as sticky with sweat as they were the first time he tried to call Joe to apologize. Like. An hour ago.

Let it not be said that Patrick Stumph is a quitter. Thirty-five calls later and here he is at 9 p.m. wasting precious sleeping hours by trying to say sorry to his friend. 

The rings stop. Patrick’s greeted by Joe’s fake-out voicemail response— a trick he fell for three times in a row— and he grimaces. Thirty-six calls later.

Patrick pulls his phone away from his face only to slam his thumb against the call button. If trying this stupid tactic, again and again, labels him insane, so be it. Better than letting his only friendship rot.

It rings three times and Patrick tries very hard not to get discouraged. He knows, from this extremely thorough research of Joe’s phone patterns, that he only has six rings before it goes to voicemail. 

The phone rings again. Patrick grits his teeth.

“Dude, what?”  Joe answers, growling out his greeting, and Patrick nearly falls off his bed from how violently he fist pumps.

“ _ Dude _ ,” Patrick says back, drawing out the word in his signature sarcastic tone. It’s not what he had planned on saying but being sincere sounds easier when it’s during the first few phone calls, not the thirty-sixth one. “I’ve been trying to call you for, like, a literal hour. And I know you saw it because you always check your phone, even during practice.”

“Yeah, I was ignoring you.” Joe’s short tone is easy to write off, Patrick waving away the brief sting in his chest as he readjusts himself back on the bed.

“That part was obvious. I’m not a total dumbass. Anyway,” Patrick continues over Joe’s muttered response about how Patrick  _ is,  _ in fact, a full dumbass, “you might have thought you were doing this thing to get back at me but, really, you were depriving yourself of this really nice apology I had planned out. It had sincerity and actual emotion and, dude, I think I really could have made you cry with it. And, like, not in a mean way but in—”

“Can we not do this bullshit right now?” Joe cuts in. There’s a shuffle on the other end, a groan and the thud of feet hitting the floor. “You always do this crap, you know? You know, you’re allowed to be genuine without making a joke out of things, I seriously don’t know how you don’t comprehend that. If you’re gonna say sorry, say sorry. Don’t turn it into this half-assed monologue of sass and fucking sarcasm.”

And, okay,  _ ouch _ , It’s like Joe just tore his ribs away from each other and read every annoying personality trait etched inside Patrick’s chest. Joking about emotions? Check. Bullshit apologies and other false sincerities? Check. Hiding behind sass and sarcasm as defense mechanisms for any amount of vulnerability?

Patrick refuses to check that one off. Hearing it is one thing but actually admitting to it is cutting in way too deep.

He clears his throat, playfulness suddenly gone.

“Oh, so, you’re, like, actually pissed, then.” He swears he doesn’t mean for that to come out so scornful. It just happens.

Joe makes a sound between a growl and a curse.

“Yeah, I think I’m actually kinda pissed, Patrick!” He says, his voice growing into a harsh snap as a door on his end locks shut and some sort of fan turns on. Patrick would bet money that Joe’s hiding out in the bathroom like someone from a teenage drama, hoping his parents don’t find him arguing on the phone at night. “You know Terry and Wyatt walked from the band, right? Decided to start their own shit because it’s better than putting up with whatever the hell happened today.” Joe’s breathing hard now, probably pacing as he works himself into a tantrum. 

Patrick sucks in a harsh breath, choking on it like he’d been sucker-punched halfway through the inhale.

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean the band is- I mean, like, we… Fuck, we’re not through, are we?” He sounds like a girl avoiding a break-up. And Joe laughs but it’s too watery to be cruel.

“We don’t have any other choice.” Joe takes in a deep breath, smoother than Patrick’s had been, and lets it out on a shaking sigh. Music’s just as important to Joe as it is to Patrick, he knows, and Patrick suddenly feels like the asshole who forced his way into someone else’s band and wrecked it from the inside out. It doesn’t matter that most of the rubble fell on him; it was still the debris of something he never helped build. 

“Shit, Joe, I’m—” He gags on his apology. Not because he doesn’t mean it but because he knows it won’t sound like he does. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d had a speech planned but that was when he thought he’d have a band to come with it, a second chance to prove that he’s more than foolish dreams and wishful thinking. Now, though? He has nothing but words— and he’s never been good at those, anyway.

“Yeah,” Joe says, sounding defeated. He’s stopped yelling, stopped snapping, but it still rips through Patrick like a shout. Joe takes another breath, Patrick unsure of if he should still be listening. “Just. What the fuck happened? You stole their song or you gave it away or…?”

And Patrick doesn’t deserve this opportunity to explain himself, this chance to fashion a tale of redemption. He could say anything and it wouldn’t matter; either Joe’s sad enough to believe him or he’s already decided he won’t. Patrick could say Pete took it without Patrick knowing. He could say it was all his.

He could say that but the thought of another lie burns his mouth like acid.

“I don’t think it’s fair to really claim anyone stole the song,” Patrick says slowly, tugging at a loose thread on his blankets. His bedroom light's off but the blinds are open and everything feels detached from reality, just enough that he can shut his eyes and tell the truth. “Pete wrote the words but I don’t know if they were meant to be lyrics. I just know they were meant to be for me. And I don’t understand things unless they’re in a song— unless I work with them and force them to mean something because you’re right and I can’t fucking do emotions like a normal person. So I made the music for the words and Pete wanted to learn it. It was his song just as much as it was mine. And I was stupid and angry and hurt so I gave it to you guys, too, and pretended it meant nothing when really—”

Patrick cuts off, eyes squeezed shut and head shaking as if to reject his own words. He’s not fucking good with words.

Joe, fumbling and quiet, finds them for him.

“Everything,” Joe finishes, sounding as if he’d never been angry at all. “The song meant everything to you two.”

Patrick presses his lips together, shoulders aching from how stiff he’s become. 

“It meant everything to me,” he says. “I don’t know what it means to Pete.”

His voice breaks into a whisper in the middle of Pete’s name, poked and prodded at by every emotion he’s felt today. Joe catches his breath at the sound and then sighs.

“Fuck, dude, I really don’t want to comfort you here. You’re a dick and you got us kicked out and—” Another sigh, one that sounds more like a groan than anything else. “I don’t think it means nothing to him. I know Wentz— or, well, I know him a  _ bit _ — and I don’t think he’d freak out that badly if there wasn’t something else going on with him.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, smiling to himself softly— hopefully. “You really think so?” 

“As much as I hate the whole relationship thing, yeah.” Patrick can practically hear Joe rolling his eyes. “Speaking of which, um… It didn’t seem like you guys ended on the best note back there. I know I always gave you shit about dating him but it sucked to see how it all turned out. If you need to talk about it…”

Joe’s a better friend than Patrick could have planned for and Patrick shakes his head, biting his lip as he considers Joe’s offer. Sincerity isn’t Patrick’s thing but it looks so good on everyone else. Tempting and appealing and Patrick can’t stop himself from what he says next.

“We weren’t actually dating,” he says before he loses his nerve, his hand balling up into a fist. Always his instinct, it seems— fists and sharp tones and the hopes that he can fend off whatever weakness appears. “It was… It was this stupid plan that Pete came up with. If we were… If we dated or pretended to, then it could convince both our bands to keep from breaking any rules. It was a way to make sure we wouldn’t disqualify ourselves.”

Joe’s quiet and Patrick deserves that, the thrumming fear of his heart as he waits for damnation. He hadn’t planned on owning up to the lies— hadn’t ever imagined telling the truth— but does he really have anything else to lose? 

Joe snorts. “Oh, wow, you two did such a spectacular job.”

It’s sarcasm and it’s sass and Patrick nearly goes limp with relief.

“Not like any of you made it easy! All that teasing and, really, I was the one trying to save us,” he says. He can’t laugh about it yet, the wounds still too recent and prone to tearing open. Still, Joe chuckles lightly and Patrick allows himself a small smile. “You’re not mad, right?” 

“God, you sound like a kid,” Joe says. “I’m beyond mad, yeah, but not looking at you in person is helping me pretend I’m not. I’m still gonna hit you next time I see you, though.”

Patrick feels there’s more to it than that but he lets Joe get away with it, muttering something about being offended and then allowing the conversation to trail into silence. 

A second passes and then Joe clears his throat.

“So I know it was all pretend but, like, do you actually like Pete?” 

“Oh, come on, really? I just said that it was a—”

“You owe me an honest answer, Stumph,” Joe cuts in, probably wagging his finger in the air as he says it. “I had to imagine you and Pete in all kinds of positions every time you were hanging out together! I deserve something for the emotional trauma.”

“I don’t think anyone told you to imagine that,” Patrick says, flopping back against the bed. He shuts his eyes again. It’s easier to face true answers that way. “Okay, yeah, I like him a bit. And I think he might like me but the actual legitimacy of that statement of that is to be decided.”

“Alright but I decide that it is true,” Joe says without missing a beat. It’s quick enough that Patrick has no chance to gather his already scattered wits and respond. “Like, hear me out. I hate the guy probably as much as you like him but even I was able to put that aside— well,  _ mostly _ aside— after I saw how happy you two actually made each other. And I’d call that damn good acting but Wentz can’t act for shit. There was this Peter Pan play last summer and—”

“You really think he likes me?” It’s a testament to how gone Patrick is for Pete that he doesn’t cringe at how middle school he sounds as he pokes at his lip and tries not to giggle nervously. “You’re the second person to tell me that.”

He’s speaking more to himself than anyone else but Joe laughs at it all the same.

“Was Pete the first?” He asks. “Seriously, though. He kissed you in front of me and it looked pretty real. You remember? I hope you remember and then I can go back to pretending I don’t. Oh, and I thought of how you can make up the lying and disqualification to me. If you and Pete do get back together, can you wait a month before telling me? I can forgive you faster because you’re, like, my cool friend but Pete’s a jerk and I always want to punch him even if he hasn’t done anything. So I don’t want to risk ruining your relationship by punching him.”

“Wait, so we’re still friends?” Patrick’s shock outweighs his amusement at Joe’s request and he leans forward with his eyes wide. “Even after I lied and ruined the battle and always insult you?”

“Well, the insulting is kinda endearing because you’re not at all scary or intimidating,” Joe says and that stings more than anything else he could have said. “And I can get over the other two if you promise not to do it again. Like I said, you’re my  _ cool  _ friend. I can’t give up the one cool thing in my life, even if it's stupid at times.”

“Okay, I promise,” Patrick says and it holds a weight it never has before, like he can feel the press of the oath against his lips as he says it. It’s strange but also warm and calming, a promise to both his friend and himself. He takes a breath, prepared to speak again, but the very same breath pauses in his throat when he hears a creak outside his window.

His heart skips and it’s not just because he’s a little afraid of monsters in the dark. 

“Cool, so, anyway,” Joe says. Patrick shushes him, feeling a bit bad as he does so but ignoring the feeling in favor of listening for another sound.

Outside, something like a stick or twig snaps and Patrick’s breath rushes out in one big  _ whoosh _ .

“Hey, I’m gonna need to call you back,” he says, suddenly shaking as he faces his window. “There’s, um. Well, I don’t know but I’ll text you.”

“What? Maybe you should—”

Patrick hangs up before Joe can finish. He makes a mental note to apologize to him later; he’s getting pretty good at doing that recently.

He sets his phone down on his bedside table, flinching at the small tap when it settles against the wood. With hopes and fears as big as life, he stands and walks softly to the window. His mind fills with star-dusted images of Pete tossing pebbles at the ground level bedroom, of Pete arriving with flowers and confessions. He allows himself the fantasy only because he knows it can’t be real and he shoves his curtains to the side. 

He’s greeted with nothing but night and the familiar scene of his front lawn, the cars in the driveway mocking him with their utter stillness. Normally, Patrick would be terrified of seeing someone outside his window— an old childhood fear he never outgrew. Tonight, though, his heart sinks at the emptiness.

Maybe he hadn’t believed his false foolish hopes; that doesn’t mean he wasn’t hoping for it all the same. With his heart twisting into a downward spiral, he shoves the window open, sucking in the summer air as he turns his back once more. Better to hear the wind and calm, he tells himself. Better to prove there’s nothing to find.

And better to call close the one he’s fishing for when he pulls out his guitar and pick— the bait and hook he needs for this scene.

Sleep eludes him like a high school crush and he seats himself on the ground with an angry plop. His chest aches at the thought of playing his song— Pete’s song, their song— so he merely strums a few chords. It’s not enough to wake his mom, not enough to be a full melody.

Not nearly enough to cover the sound of someone sneaking in behind him, squeaky sneakers and huffing breaths giving away whoever’s come to find him.

Perhaps Patrick should turn and make sure it’s not a murderer or kidnapper but something about the breaths he hears— something about the hesitation in their steps— has him strumming more confidently, has him hoping more thoroughly. He doesn’t need to see. 

Really, all he needs in this life or any other is the boy waiting behind him. Breaths and seconds dance with each other, ebbing and flowing across Patrick’s skin as the chords become a nameless tune. A song he might write someday if given the words; a melody he could give and never lose. He hums with it, pausing only when he hears the person behind him catch his breath. Words and phrases appear in his head, questions about boys and gentlemen, but he doesn’t say any of them tonight. Tonight, they’re better in his head and, as his song drifts towards its end, he’s not the one meant to speak, anyway.

“That one was pretty.” Pete’s voice is nothing like the Pete Patrick knows and, yet, it’s exactly like the one he expected. It’s not the exuberant sound of smirks and cockiness but, rather, it’s the very voice— the only voice— that could read Pete’s late-night texts and still sound true. Soft, sad, distant. “Does it have a name?”

Not trusting his own voice, too afraid of how he would sound, Patrick merely shrugs. Pete lets out a breath and Patrick imagines he can feel it rippling down his back.

“Right. You do the music.” Another pause, another breath disturbing their stillness. “You know what I do? I fall in love. A lot. And I always mess it up. It wouldn’t be right to bring someone else into that. Not when I know how it usually ends. Not when I’ve never been able to make it work before.”

Patrick could say a thousand things but none of his thoughts take the shape of words. They’re disconnected notes and chords, melodies meant to be heard but not spoken. His mouth goes dry at the very thought and he hates himself for the silence just as much as he accepts it.

Behind him, the carpet shifts. 

“Can I come closer?” Pete asks, sounding even further away than before. Through the soft waves of music in his head, Patrick finds one word.

“Yes.” A whisper, a breath.

Enough.

There’s a crackling sound as Pete crawls over discarded song ideas and tossed out music notes, the steady shuffle of carpet beneath his knees and hands, and Patrick holds his breath through all of it. It doesn’t take long for Pete to reach Patrick but Patrick still jerks in surprise when Pete’s suddenly behind him, head bent and pressed to the back of Patrick’s neck.

When Pete holds Patrick’s arm in a loose grip and breathes as if he couldn’t breathe before, Patrick understands. His own breath becomes a thread tugged free from his lungs, liberated and sweet as he melts back into Pete.

“Why are you here?” Patrick asks. His eyes are still open but he won’t turn around, won’t look past the shadows of his bedroom as Pete shifts behind him.

“I’m here because you were right. And I know you know you were but…” Pete takes a shaking breath and Patrick can feel him shake his head. “I like you. A lot. Way more than I should. I like you so much it scares me. I can see myself with you and I can never see myself with anyone but that means I can see myself ruining you, too. Things never work out for me and it always ends with someone getting hurt and I’d rather stay away than let things fall apart again. Break things on my own terms. Do the least amount of damage before it gets worse…  Can you tell me you understand?”

“Yeah.” Patrick sets the guitar to the side, words scraping up his throat like knots. Pete asks for him to understand but something in his trembling tone tells Patrick that Pete doesn’t want him to understand, at all. “I understand that you’re selfish.”

Pete begins to pull away, hurt, but Patrick settles him with a hand over the one on his arm, holding tight and smiling to himself.

“I understand that none of this is fair to me,” Patrick continues, easing the blow of his words with soft circles rubbed into Pete’s hand. “God, Pete. Do you think I can’t make my own decisions? Do you think I can’t take care of myself if I need to? I know you, asshole. I know what I’m getting into and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words burst from Pete when he pulls away but they don’t hold any vitriol, any true anger.

Patrick turns the second Pete’s gone from him, darkness framing Pete but never hiding him entirely. Patrick reaches out, a hand on Pete’s knee, and leans forward with the hopes that Pete can see him, too.

“I don’t care if it’s what you mean— it’s still all that I understand,” he says, pressing down on Pete as he says it. If Pete can’t feel his words, maybe Patrick can force them into his skin and bones and blood with nothing but a touch— nothing but the desperate need for him to hear and feel what he says. “You’re dramatic and I have a bad temper. We both have our reasons to run away from the other but I refuse to do that. When it was fake, we were good together and I’m not gonna give that up because you can’t see past your own fears. And if you need someone to be brave for a while, I’m right here. There’s nothing you can do to scare me away.”

It’s a tender moment and Patrick’s never felt more vulnerable than when he has Pete’s eyes on him now, wide and still a bit sad. They dance across Patrick’s face, reading things Patrick hasn’t said, but then settle with a cautiously hopeful light.

“Really? Not even if I kidnap you and hide you away in my basement?” Pete asks. He’s close enough to playful that Patrick can tell he was aiming for it so Patrick responds with laughter of his own.

“You’re forgetting all the shit you pulled back when we were rivals,” he says. “That pizza? The prank calls? I’ll take a kidnapping over those any day.”

Patrick’s breaths might as well be Pete’s now, they’re so close. Though it’s dark, he can see the lights glimmering in Pete’s eyes. Though it’s night, he’s never felt so warm.

“Don’t tempt me. I still might steal you away,” Pete says, resting his hand over Patrick’s as Patrick laughs softly at his words— teasing and daring him to follow through. 

Patrick closes the distance between, placing a chaste kiss on Pete’s lips and smiling when he feels the other returning it. 

“You hid me in your closet the first time I visited,” he says. “It’s my turn to steal you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Pete whispers, guiding Patrick to lay back on the ground as he hovers over him. “I can live with that.”

Patrick only has a second to appreciate the mischievous glow of Pete’s eyes before his stronger— and less thoughtful— instincts take over. This kiss starts slow and gentle but, as Patrick presses back up against Pete and Pete presses down, it heats and deepens within moments. One swipe of Pete’s tongue against Patrick’s plump bottom lip is all it takes for Patrick to part his lips and let Pete in, his own tongue sliding against Pete’s happily. They sigh into each other, each sound nearly a moan, and Patrick could drown in the noise. Pete’s mouth is hot and inviting and Patrick can’t get enough, sliding his hands down Pete’s body to cup his ass with a greedy squeeze. 

Patrick’s no good with words or confessions but he can do this, can press each certainty and want into his skin with hands and tongues and hips. He pulls him closer, pushes deeper, clings tighter until he’s sure he and Pete will never be separated again. He holds tight to the collar of Pete’s shirt with one hand, refusing to let him entirely pull away when Pete turns his head and pants for breath. Though his lips are gone, Patrick keeps kissing his jaw and neck, scattering everything he couldn’t say into the pretty darkness of Pete’s skin.

He wants… Fuck, he wants. He wants everything he could never say but, mostly, he wants to get Pete on his bed. No one else matters; nothing else matters. Nothing but—

Patrick’s phone beeps with the notification of an incoming text, the shrill sound sending Pete sprawling to the ground beside him as he jumps away from the noise. 

“What the fuck?” He asks, scrambling to sit back up. His hair’s a mess and his cheeks are dark and Patrick’s hands itch with the need to touch both. “Was that your phone?”

“Yeah.” Patrick rubs at his own cheeks and copies Pete by pushing himself off from the floor. His phone’s still lit up and Pete’s muttering curses as he pokes at the rug burn on his elbow. With a swear of his own, Patrick turns to grab the phone.

He’s stopped by Pete’s hand around his arm.

“Hey, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” he says, rapid-fire and wide-eyed. “Do you have to get that now?”

“I mean, I should at least turn it off, right?” Patrick glances back at Pete, an eyebrow raised. “Or did you want my mom to walk in on us?”

Pete’s nose wrinkles and Patrick thinks it’s absolutely adorable— now that he’s allowed to think it. 

“Not necessarily,” he says, letting go to let Patrick grab his phone. “I’ll think of a better way to tell her I’m dating her son.”

Phone in hand and both eyebrows raised now, Patrick looks back over. “Oh, so, we’re dating? That’s all it takes?”

“If by that you mean the month or so of confusing emotions and then a huge public fight that embarrassed us both then yes. I think we deserve it.” He nods at Patrick’s phone before allowing any room for response. “Was it important?”

Patrick glances down quickly, reading the screen with a wince. “Maybe? It was Joe. I was talking to him a bit before you showed up and I guess I kinda hung up. He’s probably ticked about that.”

“Rightfully so, I’d have to say,” Pete says, earning a swat on the arm from Patrick. “That’s the other kid from your band, right?”

“I mean, I’d prefer if you didn’t call us kids but yeah. Kinda,” he says, dropping his phone to the side with a sigh. “The band broke up, I guess. The others decided the drama wasn’t worth it. Somehow, that’s even worse than getting booted from the competition. And I think Joe agrees? Like, sure, the battle would have been cool but I think we were just in it for the chance to play and get big from it and shit. We’ve had our differences but I think Joe and I are on the same level with that. Music’s it.”

Pete responds with a burst of breathy laughter, unbelievable and short.

“Damn, you make it sound like the end of the world,” he says despite Patrick’s insistent glare. “Here, toss me that thing, will you?”

Patrick probably shouldn’t but Pete’s smirk is more reassuring when it’s on his side; his tone is less terrifying when it promises help behind each word.

“Go crazy,” Patrick says, tossing over the phone the way Pete had asked and chuckling when Pete fumbles to catch it. He doesn’t know what he expects but, somehow, he’s not as panicked as he should be when Pete fires a responding text to Joe. “You gonna make me look bad to my friends?”

“You? Look bad? Impossible,” Pete says, setting the phone aside and looking back at Patrick’s kiss-swollen lips. Patrick rubs them together in a way that’s not quite self-conscious, not quite a tease.

“Hmm… I’ll pretend to trust you about that for now.” He leans back, propped up on his elbows, and hopes he doesn’t look stupid when he tries a small smile of his own at Pete. There’s probably something hot he could say here but his throat closes up at the thought— a self-protective measure, probably— but Pete doesn’t seem to mind the silence as he makes his way back to Patrick. Lips connect to Patrick’s jaw, hips fit between his legs, and he nearly growls in satisfaction. Pete bites and sucks at Patrick’s skin and his breath is so warm, so nice, that Patrick can’t find it in him to care about what marks may show in the morning. Pete’s certain in his movements and Patrick’s sure about his, running down the back of Pete’s head to tangle in dark hair and scratch lightly along the back of his neck. It’s perfect; it’s not enough.

“Pete,” he whines, rolling his hips up against Pete with a groan. Pete slips a hand down to his crotch and presses, laughing when Patrick bucks up against it.

“Hey, remember when I said I wouldn’t mind screwing you?” Pete says between ragged breaths. He pulls back but lands again on the corner of Patrick’s mouth, his smile hot against Patrick’s skin. Patrick clings to his shoulders, his knuckles white from his tightened fists. “That offer still totally stands.”

“Fuck off.” Patrick turns his head. It doesn’t help at all that his bed is the first thing he sees but it does put a smile on his face. “Actually, fuck you. If you think you can be quiet for once, that is.”

Pete’s smile grows and his hands slip to Patrick’s hips, squeezing teasingly as he laughs.

“Knowing how aggressive you are, I don’t think that’s likely,” he says, dipping down for another sloppy kiss. “But I’m always up for something new.”

Patrick smirks. 

“Then get on the bed.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When morning comes, it tastes like victory.

It also tastes a bit like the memory of Pete’s cock in his mouth but Patrick would rather not think about how weird that is right now. Besides, as he rolls over into the cold emptiness of the other side of his mattress, he’s far more interested in being angry at something— or, more specifically, someone.

His stomach sinks with a violent plummet as he sits up, skipping the daily ritual of rubbing his eyes and groaning at the time in favor of falling off the bed as he scrambles for his phone. It’s plugged into its charger, something Patrick knows he didn’t do. Nice of Pete to charge his phone after sleeping with him. Classy, Patrick’s sure.

Okay, so he’s a little bitter about the fact that Pete slept with him without sticking around for pancakes or waffles or whatever the hell else Patrick would have happily made him in his lovesick haze. Bitter and upset, though, is easier to handle than the pit of lonely despair circling his throat like a knot before he cries. Because he’s not going to cry. No. What kind of loser would he be if he cried about Pete Wentz? He’s a bit more preoccupied with planning out just how hard he’s going to punch him in the balls next time he sees him.

Though, instead of storming off the way he usually would, Patrick finds himself kneeling by his phone and checking for a secret message left behind, a note or promise that nothing from last night— the whispered confessions and trembling moments— were fake.

Patrick can’t have any more lies in his life. He’s sure he’ll shatter if another one comes through.

His phone, fully charged and settled snugly in his palm, comes to life with the notification that it’s nearly noon. It’s the latest Patrick’s been allowed to sleep in recently but, somehow, he can’t allow himself to celebrate it just yet. Fumbling and cursing, the way he usually goes through life, he checks through his messages and texts.

Nothing. Nothing and no one.

Patrick blinks at the blank screen, the mass whiteness that displays proof that all of his messages to Joe— his only friend— have been deleted. Joe’s texts weren’t what Patrick was looking for but his chest twists at the realization that they’re gone.

Wasn’t Pete texting Joe from Patrick’s phone last night? Right before making out and following him to his bed? Patrick’s heart falls right down next to his stomach as he imagines Pete joking or teasing him without Patrick knowing. Sure, Joe and Pete seem to hate each other— or, at least, dislike each other— but what if it was an act? What if this whole thing has been a ploy to make Patrick look and feel like a fool, a loser, a kid too willing to fall in love with a player like Pete Wentz? And, fuck, didn’t Pete joke about wanting to sleep with Patrick when he first found out Patrick was actually gay? What if this was just a way to do that?

No. Patrick shakes his head, hard enough his vision blurs. Patrick knows Pete. He fucking knows him and he wouldn’t do that. He might be a dick and a coward incapable of sticking around long enough for Patrick to really be happy but he isn’t evil. He wouldn’t use Patrick and he would never trick him just for sex. Besides, all the lies that Pete’s told have been with Patrick as his confidante. They’re partners in crime and that’s a bond that’s not easily broken.

Even if it is just to win a battle of the bands.

And, fuck. Patrick feels another blow to his entire being as he remembers the battle today. That’s why he was able to sleep in— there was no reason to wake up. No need to crawl out of bed to gather up his instruments and hurry them off to some club a few blocks away. No need to meet up with Joe and his band for one more practice, one more run-through before the real thing. No need to build up pre-show jitters, to roll his drumsticks between his hands just to comfort himself; no need to wake up and do the one thing he loves.

Is it bad if that hits worse than the earlier realization that Pete had left? Because he can reconcile Pete’s affection for him with his absence this morning— that’s just who Pete is. But Patrick’s entire life music and it will never make sense that a bit of it’s been stolen away. He’s a moment from breaking down and screaming; he’s a second away from throwing a fit and punching holes in his walls.

He’s a heartbeat away from running down to the club and begging Andy to let him play.

He can do that, can’t he? Sure, it’s a battle of the  _ bands  _ but everyone loves a good underdog story and it’s not like there’s never been a one-man-band before. He knows a good amount of instruments and has some songs in his head that he never shared with Patterson. If he tries hard enough, he might even convince himself to cry while he asks. Everyone says he’s got a babyface, might as well put it to use and get some well-deserved pity tossed his way.

It’s a long shot— he knows it’s a long shot and that, quite possibly, he’ll end up looking like an idiot— but life is already shitty enough that he’s willing to take the chance. 

As he dresses, not really looking at what he’s wearing, he considers his options. The drum set’s probably— maybe, just a bit— too heavy to lug down to the club in time but the gleam of the guitar abandoned on the floor seems suspicious. Patrick’s not a guitarist— not anyone meant to stand more than a few feet away from the back of a stage— but something in his gut has him lugging the strap around his body. Call it determination, even if it reeks of youthful desperation.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, fixing his hat and giving himself a totally not embarrassing pep-talk in the mirror. “Just go find Andy and ask to join. Or, like, find a band that’s missing a member and offer to fill in. ‘Hey, I’m Patrick and I…’ I’m stupid. That’s what.”

He sighs, glaring at his own red-stained cheeks, but keeps his chin up anyway. Worst case scenario, he kidnaps someone’s guitarist and steps in as a perfectly timed hero. It’s the best plan he’s got— besides all the other more humiliating but less evil ones. 

It’s as he’s pulling on his shoes that his phone buzzes with an incoming call. The phone lights up with all the energy of a wraith racing towards him, the name on the screen instilling the same exact fear. Patrick leaps back, a hiss somewhere in the back of his throat as he glares at the call.

Pete Wentz has no right to be calling him now. If he wanted to talk, he should have stayed. 

Still, Patrick can’t bring himself to completely reject the call. To do so would be suspicious, right? Pete would totally know Patrick’s ignoring him and it’s not like he wants Pete to think he’s  _ ignoring  _ him. He just, like, well…

He wants to feel like he’s ignoring him. It’ll make up for the way he’ll inevitably forgive him for this later, the way he already feels himself doing as he wonders where Pete is and why he’s calling. Maybe he has some excuse or reason for ditching Patrick. Maybe he had to go, like, rescue kittens from a fire. Patrick could totally forgive him if he rescued kittens from a fire. Especially if they’re cute and small and— 

Suddenly Patrick’s imagining Pete covered in kittens and it’s not helping him stay angry. In fact, it’s doing a bit of the opposite. When the phone finally ceases its buzzing, Patrick breathes a sigh of relief. It’s so much easier to ignore Pete when he isn’t right in Patrick’s face.

Considering it safe to grab his phone— so long as the screen stays dark and he doesn’t accidentally check his notifications— Patrick packs it away into his pocket and goes to face the battle.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

As Patrick shoves his way into the club, past crowds of mildly interested music-listeners and the cluster of far more excited bands, the storm of his mind stills long enough for him to stare openly at the band onstage. He doesn’t know them; he’s just astounded at how much they suck.

He’s still wandering deeper into the club but the offbeat drums and out of tune guitar haunt him like regrets. This is what he would have been up against? A weak metal cover of some annoying pop song? Vocals thinner than the singer’s hair and a crowd not even pretending to be into it?

It boils Patrick’s already heated blood, the complete abuse of music and proof of his band’s success swirling through his mind with enough haste to make him dizzy.

And it’s enough dizziness to have him stumbling into one Andrew Hurley.

“Hey, careful” Andy says, righting himself with a frown. “Have you checked in yet? Bands go in the back but you’ll need to sign—  _ Patrick?”  _

Andy’s clipboard finds a new home beneath his arm as he shoves his glasses back up his nose and stares at Patrick as if amazed he still exists. Patrick shifts his weight, feeling both awkward and offended at the look. Yesterday’s events weren’t  _ that  _ bad, okay? What? Did the rest of the world expect him to never show his face again or something?

Apparently so. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” Andy asks with enough flabbergasted confusion that Patrick’s embarrassment feels more like obligation than genuine shame. Still, he straightens his spine and hopes his cheeks aren’t too red. 

“I’m here to compete,” he says, reciting the speech he’d concocted— and practiced repeatedly— on the walk here. The words are strong, tough, sinking into the air with all the conviction Patrick’s ever felt in his entire life.  _ This  _ is his moment, his comeback story, his first big battle to conquer. It’s the monologue everyone will quote when his biopic comes out, years after he finds a new band and becomes the musician he was made to be. The story of a boy facing the odds and coming out on top; it all starts here. “And I’m not taking no for an answer. If you think you can stop me, then I’ve just got one thing to say to you. Go—”

“But what about Pete?”

At Andy’s question, all of Patrick’s determination snaps like a guitar string giving into all the wrong tension. His shoulders slump and he pulls back, recoiling away from that traitor’s name.

“Wait, are you implying that he’s here, too?” If Pete is stealing Patrick’s big moment, there just might be a war. “Did he beat me to the fucking monologue?”

“Did he… What?” Andy’s eyes seem twice as large behind his glasses as he looks Patrick over again. It’s not a look Patrick particularly likes. “You know what, nevermind. Just talk to Pete, alright? I don’t have time to—”

“Oh, no the fuck you don’t,” Patrick says, grabbing Andy’s arm and thanking his lucky stars that he isn’t punched for the sudden contact. It must be Pete’s influence rubbing off on him, this grabby thing. “I did not walk all the way here to be turned down before I can even give my big speech.”

“You walked?” Andy asks.

Patrick lets go. “Seriously? That’s the part you’re paying attention to?”

Patrick’s never seen someone facepalm with such fervor before.

“Always cleaning up his messes,” Andy mutters to himself, only audible because one of the speakers in the club seems to have blown out, leaving only the judgemental murmur of the crowd and the palpable frustration of the band left on the stage. Andy glances up and his will to live seems to shrink even further. “Okay, whatever. Things are a mess here and if I have to pick between messes, I’m picking Pete’s. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

He starts walking towards the back door without checking Patrick’s answer, slipping between judges and bands with that clipboard still stashed in his armpit. It’s sketchy as fuck and Patrick doesn’t know Andy well enough to readily accept a car ride with him but Pete’s name lingers in the air like his presence— impossible to ignore— and Patrick finds himself tagging along.

Besides, if Andy does plan on kidnapping and killing him, Patrick’s running out of reasons to care. It’s either go with the potential murder or serve his dignity up to the battle of the band organizers by begging— and failing— to be let in. The choice seems rather obvious.

So, when Andy’s car turns out to be a little silver thing rather than the white van he’d been imagining, Patrick’s bored disinterest shakes awake long enough to rise to a vague intrigue. And this is enough to set his more logical suspicions afire with one thought.

“You said this had to do with Pete?” He asks, carefully setting his guitar in the back before sliding into the passenger seat.

Andy doesn’t respond until they’re both buckled in and pulling out from the lot.

“It always does,” he says. Patrick’s more than ready to agree.

The drive is a short one, though that may be mostly thanks to the empty weekend roads. It’s still only a few moments past noon and the day hangs over the streets with the laziness perfected by summer sun. Patrick stares out the window, trying to guess their destination but easily distracting himself by the way the seedy club area fades into neighborhoods and parks. As Patrick’s smiling to himself about the warmth of the day, Andy brings the car to a stop along the sidewalk. Patrick takes longer than he should to notice they’ve parked, turning to face Andy with something like expectation boiling in his guts.

“So?” He asks, casting his gaze past Andy and towards the park behind him. It’s one Patrick’s familiar with, if only for the strange array of activities offered within. From the playground still scattered with memories of younger years to the skate ramps that witnessed Patrick’s lousy attempt at a skateboarding phase, the place reeks of nostalgia. So it makes sense that Patrick’s demands for explanation die on his tongue like the frustration fading away from Andy’s eyes.

“So,” Andy says, pushing his door open and waiting for Patrick to do the same. “We go see what Pete’s planned.”

The playground’s mostly empty, aside from a few kids swinging and chasing each other through the wood chips. The skate park’s mostly the same, younger teens sitting at the top of the ramps to watch as Patrick and Andy make their way past them. They’re probably not actually judging them as much as Patrick thinks they are but something about their nudges and whispers towards each other does leave him with the same feeling the kids in his high school class left him with— stared down at, laughed at, ignored.

Patrick lifts his chin and carries on without a second thought for them. Not again; not ever again.

Just past the skate park and playground, there’s a pavilion the neighborhood raised money for last summer. It’s a measly thing, often used for birthday parties when parents are too tired to host the celebrations at their own homes. The wooden structure is raised up by just a few steps, typically crowded with picnic benches coated by dirt and dead bugs.

Today, though, all the benches have been pushed aside and the only things crowding the area are the people. Patrick’s age and older, congregating at the bottom of the concrete stairs and ignoring the newcomers. The pavilion’s been made into a makeshift stage, it seems, with amps and mic stands plugged into a dangerous amount of extension cords. Patrick pauses, eyebrows furrowed, and tries to figure out how he’s supposed to fit into this.

“Not that I don’t think Pete has something to do with this but are you sure that—” Patrick’s cut off by a sudden shouting of his name.

“Patrick! You made it!”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear; as if there was ever any doubt that Pete was Satan.

“You weren’t answering your phone so I was about to come steal you from your bed,” Pete rambles like that’s a totally normal thing to say. Though, Patrick considers, if these people know Pete then they’re probably used to the stranger tendencies by now. “How did you get here?”

“Andy brought me,” Patrick says, too stupefied by the sudden events to really hone in on the sarcasm that this situation really deserves. Pity, it would have been nice to bitch Pete out in front of all his friends.

Sarcasm or not, Pete still seems a bit offended at the idea that Andy brought Patrick to what Patrick’s assuming was supposed to be some sort of surprise. “When did you have time to see Andy?”

“When he stormed over to the club to try and join the battle on his own,” Andy cuts in. “You’re lucky I was the one he ran into, Pete. Anyone else would have ignored him or laughed or, god forbid, actually let him compete.”

Okay, that’s so not fair and also completely not the point. Patrick crosses his arms— but he doesn’t huff, okay, that was just a sigh— and frowns at Pete.

“You were gone this morning.” He means to expand on it, to swear and shout and be every bit the dramatic bitch he deserves to be, but something in Pete’s eyes softens and Patrick melts right along with it.

God fucking damn it, he’s so weak.

“I honestly thought you’d sleep in,” he says. Which— okay, fair enough. “And I needed to sneak away to, well, to set this whole thing up.”

Though Patrick doesn’t quite like the use of the phrase “sneak away”, he does peer over Pete’s shoulder to take in the crowd once more. They’re not as restless as the people from the battle of the bands, laughing and joking with each other as if waiting for something to happen is the best part of their day. Patrick’s frown deepens, this time in confusion.

“And what exactly is this?” He asks, looking back at Pete. “It isn't another trick or—”

“Patrick!” It's only by the grace of God that Patrick doesn't turn and attack Joe when he races up and socks him in the arm just like he promised he would. He swears and Joe laughs and Patrick's only barely able to admit he deserved it. “Shit, man, we were scared you wouldn’t show.”

“So I’ve been told,” Patrick says, rubbing at the sore spot on his arm. “Now will someone please explain why I’m here?”

Joe and Pete and Andy all share varying looks of amusement. It’s rather upsetting and Patrick’s beginning to plot murder against them when Pete grabs his hand and smiles. And, no, Patrick does not melt this time; relaxing and sighing and forgetting about all evil schemes does not count as melting. 

“I know how much performing means to you and I wanted to do something to make things right. I can’t put us back in the battle and I can’t bring your band back but that doesn’t matter— you deserve better than competition and shitty friends, anyway. You deserve a chance for people to hear your music on its own, without the pressures of judging it or comparing it to others. You and your music— it deserves the world and maybe this isn’t the world, not yet, but it will be. Someday.” Pete’s voice is as shy as his smile and it steals Patrick’s breath just enough for the moment to feel like magic. “Don’t get me wrong, I mean, it’s a bit selfish, too. Because I want people to hear this song— your song…  _ our  _ song— the way it’s meant to be played. And it’s supposed to be played by us. We’re supposed to play it together and I’m not gonna deny the universe what it wants.”

And, fuck, if that isn’t a monologue Patrick will remember for the rest of his life. 

He smiles against his will, fighting it at first before giving in with a reckless laugh. Something swells up in his chest and throat, something like the song Pete wants them to play, and it feels right to let it be just that. No hiding behind sass or sarcasm, no pretending it’s not there. He’s so stupid for Pete and it doesn’t matter because... this? This right here? This is happiness. This is perfect.

“So, what now? I’ve got a guitar in Andy’s car but that’s about it. You want that and I’ll take the drums? Or maybe—”

“Actually,” Pete says, “I was hoping you would sing.”

Patrick’s world doesn’t stop so much as it slows. Pete’s smile flickers and Patrick sees each hopeful twitch. Joe and Andy stand beside them, watching with grins of their own. The crowd behind them continues their joking, passing around flyers Pete must have printed early this morning—  _ Concert in the pavilion,  _ they read,  _ hosted by Pete Wentz and the best band you’ve never heard of. _

It’s a stupid sign with a stupid promise but people still smile and laugh. People still showed up. People are still here to listen.

And, as the world swings back into motion, Patrick laughs and pulls Pete forward, burying his grin in his shoulder.

“Just this once, you asshole,” he says between giggles. “And only if you promise that this band thing is gonna stick.”

“It’s gonna last forever,” Pete whispers. It sends chills down Patrick’s spine, a wish granted in the same second it was spoken. When Patrick pulls back, Pete’s smiling like this was never in his plans, at all; Patrick understands the feeling. He’s supposed to be at a battle right now, proving to everyone that his choices are right, that music is right. Instead, he’s with the most impossible boy ever, about to do something he’d never dream of doing. And he’s more than okay with it; he’s kinda in love with everything about this, to be perfectly honest. “Yo, Hurley. Wanna take drums for us? Patrick can fill you in on everything real quick, Joe and I'll stall.”

It should be strange to see two rivals smiling at each other so conspiratorially but Patrick just shakes his head as Andy sighs.

“I’ve already ditched my other job for this,” Andy says. “Might as well have some fun with it.”

“Awesome,” Pete says, still smiling bright enough to burn out the sun. He leans towards Patrick once more, planting a kiss on his cheek. “We’re gonna be the best, Patrick. Wait and see.”

Somewhere in Andy’s car, there’s a guitar that Patrick will have to tune and talk to Joe about, discussing who’ll play what part and how the rhythm should go. Somewhere on the makeshift stage, there’s a drum set to be put together and Patrick will gaze longingly at it before letting Andy prove that, really, he’s better at it anyway.

But, right now? Right here? There’s Pete in his vision and music in his head and everything else can wait.

Patrick looks down at their hands— still tangled together, still holding on with no plans of letting go— and then looks up to find Pete’s eyes searching for his.

Laughing. Smiling. Promising Patrick every dream they didn’t know they shared. 

But this moment is more than just a dream, Patrick decides; it’s more than a wish fulfilled or another joke played by the universe.

It’s absolutely, completely impossible. 

And, honestly?

Patrick wouldn’t have it any other way.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!!
> 
> I really hope you like this and I really hope this ending was good, haha. It's been so much fun writing this story and it's been awesome seeing everyone's thoughts. I'm going to miss this little sassy Patrick so much-- he's my child at this point. I don't know when it happened, but sometimes while writing this chapter I paused my writing to ask myself if he's okay. I think it was, like, midnight and I found myself muttering "can someone please check in on my boy." I love him. I love him so much.
> 
> And I love all the comments everyone's left throughout this journey!! Please, leave a few more to let me know what you think and, hopefully, I'll see you at the next fic :) 
> 
> Have the most amazing day/night! Bye!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos feed my family. There's more to come so, please, let me know if you're enjoying it at all!
> 
> Also, come to talk with me at hum-my-name.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Have a fantastic day/night!


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